


Hurkumalak—Armor of Hands

by Bofur1



Series: Company Confidential [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Anger Management, Angst, Baby Dwarves, Big Brothers, Character Death, Coma, Family Drama, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst and Humor, Heart Illness, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, I Made Myself Cry, Khuzdul, Little Brothers, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Revenge, Sibling Bonding, Storytelling, Violence, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:05:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 39
Words: 27,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Bofur1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was at that moment that Bilbo Baggins rode up beside Dwalin. “Excuse me,” the Hobbit began politely, trying to stir conversation.<br/>Dwalin grunted as he smoothed out the mane of his pony.<br/>“Ahem, mm...I was just admiring your...uh...” Bilbo faltered, for he didn’t quite know what to call the objects clamped to the giant Dwarf’s wrists.<br/>Dwalin gave Bilbo a sideways glance. He straightened and spoke in a deep, rolling voice: “Hurkumalak.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What, you _learned _Halflings don't speak Khuzdûl?"__

Dwalin squinted around him at the other Dwarves. Already the rain was putting everyone in different moods.

Up ahead, Óin and Glóin were in a heated argument about something, an argument that Óin could barely follow, since the pitter-pattering of the rain was making his deafness even worse than usual. He would say something related to a part of the argument Glóin had long since forgotten and it would make Glóin all the angrier. Thus the bickering was easily fed.

Fíli and Kíli were listening to Balin tell a story—or try to—about a Man of old named Túrin, but the young princes kept interrupting to ask questions about something Túrin _didn’t_ do on his adventures. Dwalin could tell Balin was getting frustrated, but still he sought to keep down their chatter.

Dori was whining and pleading with Gandalf about the wet, begging him to do something about it, while Nori greedily eyed something sticking from Glóin’s pocket and cracked his fingers. Ori lay practically prostrate on his pony trying to protect his sketchbook from the rain.

Bofur was examining his pipe and peering at the wet weed in the bowl. With a small sigh he shoved it back in his mouth, just to have the end to chew on while he rode. Bombur, of course, was munching something from his pack, while Bifur was in a world of his own and very nearly ran into a tree.

Thorin was at the head of the group. He rode silently, speaking with none but listening to all. None of the Company tried to approach him; they knew the King had many things on his mind.

It was at that moment that Bilbo Baggins rode up beside Dwalin. “Excuse me,” the Hobbit began politely, trying to stir conversation.

Dwalin grunted as he smoothed out the mane of his pony, Eira. (There was no need to do this, of course, because Eira's mane was soaking wet, but Dwalin paid this no mind.)

“Ahem, mm...I was just admiring your...uh...” Bilbo faltered, for he didn’t quite know what to call the objects clamped to the giant Dwarf’s wrists.

Dwalin gave Bilbo a sideways glance. He straightened and spoke in a deep, rolling voice: “ _Hurkumalak_.” This one word caught the attention of Balin, Thorin, and Gandalf simultaneously.

Bilbo stared at Dwalin in uncomprehending disbelief. “W-What?” he stammered.

Nori looked over his shoulder and smirked. “What, you _learned_ Halflings don’t speak Khuzdûl?” he asked.

The dreamy glaze to Bifur’s eyes vanished as soon as the word ‘Khuzdûl’ appeared in the conversation. He whirled, his hair whipping in a great wave around his head, and began to fire rapid, befuddling gibberish at his cousins.

“Aww, Nori, ye’ve set him off now,” Bofur sighed.

Nori ignored Bofur and continued to grin at Bilbo. “Dwalin’s speakin’ in Dwarvish. Have you never learned it?”

“Well, pardon me,” Bilbo said, feeling very insulted and left out. “I _haven’t_ learned Dwarvish. Mr. Dwalin, would you please explain what you said?”

“It means ‘armor of hand’, Halfling,” Thorin called back impatiently, irritated by the entire conversation.

Bilbo hunched his shoulders shamefacedly and Dwalin suddenly felt a bit bad for acting so superior. “That’s exactly what it means,” he said, in a kinder tone (and in Common Speech). “But we usually just call them knuckle-dusters.”

“They’re very nice,” Bilbo commented tentatively. “Were they a gift?”

Dwalin paused and nodded slowly. “Aye...a gift.” His brows knit slightly as he remembered. His silver gray eyes met Balin’s tawny brown ones.

Balin took the cue and slowed his pony, Kieran, so Dwalin and Bilbo could catch up. As soon as they did, Balin began, “The story of Dwalin’s dusters—” He paused for suspenseful purposes. “—is a long one. But it’s worth your time, if you’re interested.”

Bilbo nodded. Anything to keep him occupied on this quest; his relationship with these Dwarves seemed already to be taking a turn for the worst.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Still think you're stronger than me now?!"

Dwalin felt his left shoulder tear open and sensed a wave of warm blood cascading down from the new wound. Dolaran was strong—too strong. The older Dwarf had at least a head’s worth of height on him and he was much stronger.

Twisting out of Dolaran’s grip, Dwalin spun through the air and managed to land a boot to the side of his opponent's face. Dolaran roared, more in anger than pain, and his comrades saw their time to move in.

One of them leapt at Dwalin from behind, twisting his arm back and behind his shoulder blade. A severe cracking was heard and despite himself Dwalin cried out.

Dolaran was invigorated by this reaction. He loved to be rewarded with noise from his prey. Boots drove into Dwalin’s gut, a heavy club bashed his face, and blows to the groin rendered the younger Dwarf weak with nausea.

When at last Dolaran was satisfied, he motioned for his friends to release Dwalin’s arms. As soon as his braces left him, Dwalin collapsed onto the ground.

“Still think you’re stronger than me now?” Dolaran barked.

Dwalin tried to respond, but blood surfaced in his throat instead of words. His head was swirling and his vision was turning fuzzy around the edges. He would black out soon.

Dolaran smirked. “That’s what I thought. Let’s hope you’ve learned your lesson, because next time I won’t be so kind.”

So saying, he turned his back on Dwalin. With one last burst of energy, Dwalin’s hand clamped around Dolaran’s ankle, upending him in a most humiliating manner. One did not need use of his tongue to have the last word.

Dolaran’s friends went instantly to help him up, but some of them were hiding snickers and chuckles behind their hands. Dolaran refused their help and leapt to his feet, fury blazing in his eyes. No one was laughing when he seized the club from his lieutenant and swung it down hard.

Dwalin felt the crushing impact jolt his body repeatedly. He couldn’t cry out now; too much blood was spilling over his lips. All he could do was let the suffocating liquid run out and try to bear the devastating blows.

“That’s enough,” Dolaran’s lieutenant, Gobur, said anxiously. Dwalin had cringed into a fetal position and had not moved since and still Dolaran was beating him. As soon as the blood started pooling next to the kid’s mouth, Gobur knew that Dolaran was crossing a line.

“Stop it!” Gobur cried again urgently. He grabbed Dolaran’s arm and Dolaran swung around to face him.

“Do you want some too?” he bellowed. Gobur stared at him unflinchingly, although his heart was pounding so fast that he wasn’t certain it was getting oxygen to his brain.

Gobur cautiously stepped around his incensed leader and knelt beside the fallen Dwarf. He swallowed nervously and called in an awkward voice, “Uh...hello?”

No response.

He looked up at the others, who were standing around with perplexed expressions. “I...I think we hurt him bad,” he said nervously.

“But that’s what we were supposed to do!” protested one of the others, Glegan.

Another named Hoignus took a few steps away. “Oh, this is not good. Not good at all!”

“What?” Dolaran demanded. Hoignus turned wild eyes to him.

“D-Don’t you know who th-this is?!” he gasped. “His name is Dwalin, son of Fundin!”

Dolaran’s eyes went wide in disbelief. “...son of...Fundin...?” he echoed dumbly. He’d had encounters with Fundin, as well as his other son, Balin. Dolaran seized Hoignus by the neck and shook him. “Why didn’t you tell me?!” he thundered. “We have to get out of here! Now, hurry!”

Suddenly, an older, deeper voice spoke. “What’s goin’ on here?”

The group of boys froze.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...It's your brother."

Balin looked up from his reading when a hand fell onto his shoulder. “Balin,” Master Muran said softly. “Come with me, please.”

As he closed his book and slipped from his chair, Balin was surprised by the schoolmaster’s tone. He was even more surprised when Muran put a hand at his back as they walked toward the door. His teacher was not one for kind actions such as this.

When the door closed behind them, Balin began, “Master Muran, what—”

“Balin, I’m going to be frank with you,” Muran interrupted. “You’re renowned for your cool head and I need you to have it now. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Balin steeled himself faster than Muran had thought he would and nodded expectantly. When no words came, his eyes shifted to Muran’s face.

Muran wavered. Balin’s keen, shiny brown eyes were probing him, examining him for an explanation. If only he could just send the lad back to his reading. Muran liked Balin, _truly_ liked him, and to distress him in this way—

 “Sir?” Balin said, politely steering his train of thought back to the situation.

“...It’s your brother,” Muran admitted at last. He felt a stab of regret as soon as he said the words, for all Balin’s resolve to remain calm crumbled instantly. The color drained from Balin’s face and he took a few steps back.

“Dwalin? What’s happened?” Balin asked anxiously.

“He didn’t come to class this morning,” Muran began sadly. “His teacher, Master Goili, thought perhaps he’d been locked outside. When Goili went around the building...there was a Dwarf there who he didn’t recognize. This Dwarf found Dwalin being beaten by a group of Dwarf lads.”

Balin’s eyes were growing wider and more panicked with every word spoken. It was almost too much for Balin to fathom. Who would do such a thing to Dwalin? None of the kids here at school would even think of going near him. Who had snuck onto the property and beaten his brother?

“The fellow had given the group quite a wallop and was trying to stop the bleeding,” Muran was saying, his voice growing softer and graver. “He and Goili took him to the royal doctors and Goili asked that you be notified and released from class today. You need to be with your brother.”

For once Balin’s eloquence of speech was absent as he stammered, “But...Dwalin...he...they...what kind of—?”

“I think it’s best that you hurry, lad,” Muran said quietly. “I’ll have your things sent home. Just go.”

Balin needed no further encouragement. He whirled and dashed away down the hall, all the while praying desperately, over and over. _Let him be alright. Please, oh, please let him be alright_.

When he burst into the palace, he was met by a familiar, frantic Dwarf. “Balin, thank Mahal you’re here!” Thorin cried. He led Balin quickly to a small side room.

Balin, with none of his usual courtesy, burst through the door and shoved the doctor roughly away from the bed. His intake of breath could be heard as a sharp hiss.

Dwalin’s face was ashen pale and only half washed. The other side was filthy, bruised, and crusted with dried blood. One of his arms was bent at a terribly awkward angle, most likely broken. His shirt had been stripped away and already the thick bandages around his ribs were blood-soaked.

Balin was too horrified to speak. He collapsed to his knees beside the pillow and, knowing nothing else to do, rested his head gently against his brother’s.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you mess with one son of Fundin, you mess with them both.

Fundin felt his heart plummet as soon as his young friend Hifur said “your son”.

When he’d see Hifur’s usually cheerful face without a smile, he’d believed that something had happened in his family. Hifur was the second youngest in a family of eight and with his parents arguing and his siblings getting into trouble with the authorities, Hifur had a rather difficult home life. However, he would try to work, half the time mining and half the time acting as a stand-in when one of the royal doctors was absent.

Yet Hifur had never before shown his hurt and sadness in public. He would always put on a bold face and nod and say, “I’m sure Mahal’s workin’ everything for the best.” He especially wouldn’t say anything negative in front of his patients.

But Hifur had come straight to him, telling him he had urgent news. Fundin had been rather surprised by this. When Hifur pulled him aside and began to tell his tale, Fundin had, for the first time since his childhood, truly been dumbstruck.

And terrified. In a second, his younger son’s entire life flashed before his eyes. For adulthood and marriage and battle and learning to simply be cut off from Dwalin like the end of a sausage link—

He had to think clearly, had to keep his sense. “Where’s Balin?” he asked, trying to swallow his panic. “Does he know?”

Hifur nodded somberly. “He rushed in and nearly sent me flying into the wall trying to get past. He’s still there, as far as I know.”

“Alright. And Deallyra?”

As if on cue Fundin’s wife burst into appearance. She cried his name and flew into his arms, trembling violently. Fundin held her easily and placed his chin on the top of her head.

“You’ve heard?” she asked fearfully. Fundin nodded mutely. He’d lost his ability to speak as soon as she’d entered the room.

“I’ll take you to him, ma’am,” Hifur said quietly. Deallyra, clinging to Fundin’s arm, anxiously agreed.

When the trio approached the door, Fundin and Deallyra recognized the sound of their older son trying desperately to muffle his sobs. Fundin stepped past Hifur and opened the door. Thorin looked up sharply to see the newcomers, but Balin was too hysterical to notice.

“Balin, they’re here,” Thorin said quietly. Balin looked up at last and saw a very blurred version of his parents.

Fundin knelt and Balin was at him almost before he could hold out his arms. As Balin wept into his beard, Fundin stared at his younger son lying on a cot. _He looks like he’s just come out of a war,_ Fundin thought desolately. _He’s too young. He’s too young!_ Fundin closed his eyes tightly to block out the sight before him, but the image had imprinted itself into his mind permanently and would not be suppressed.

When his tears were stilled, Balin stumbled backward, dazed and lightheaded from crying for so long. Deallyra took a turn and wrapped her arms around him and he leaned into his mother, gazing numbly at Dwalin.

Fundin sat where Balin had been earlier and slowly rested his large hand on Dwalin’s forehead. “Can you hear me, lad?” he whispered. Dwalin didn’t even twitch in response.

Deallyra turned her glance to Thorin. “You needn’t stay, nephew,” she whispered. “You can leave if you wish.”

“I don’t,” Thorin answered shortly, not moving from where he sat nearby. There was no way he was going to leave his cousins now when they needed him most.

Those were the only words spoken among them for the rest of the afternoon. Deallyra held Balin’s hand between her own, watching as Fundin methodically untangled each lock of Dwalin’s dark, blood-matted hair.

Hifur brought them some food, though it was left untouched, and then went home for the night. Fundin felt bad for ignoring his friend, but he knew Hifur would understand.

Fundin’s keen eyes surveyed the wounds inflicted on his son. He saw the depth of each cut, the deep coloring of each bruise. Whoever had done this was clever with their placement and timing of each stroke.

But they weren’t clever enough to realize just who they had angered. Fundin gave a discreet look at Balin. His elder son’s face was now hard as stone and Fundin knew exactly what Balin was thinking. _When you mess with one son of Fundin, you mess with them both_. Fundin was thinking something much alike to that. He was already planning something and he knew just the person to help him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mind the boys."

Deallyra seized her husband’s arm, pleading, “Fundin, he doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this—”

“He would want to,” Fundin objected sharply. “He loves Dwalin like his own son. I can just imagine what he would say if he were walking up to us right now.”

Deallyra sighed. “Yes, I can too. ‘ _BagilKhazadush_!’ he’d cry. ‘Great Dwarf vengeance!’ But Fundin—his _temper_. And you know his heart’s not good.”

Fundin’s eyes glinted with something Deallyra could not read. “It’s never stopped him before,” he said, his voice taking on a raspy edge that revealed his sorrow.

“That one time,” Deallyra insisted quietly.

“Don’t remind me,” Fundin replied softly. “When he collapsed, I was afraid...I’d lost him. Just as I was afraid when I heard about our son.” He exhaled deeply. “But that is in the past. Dwalin is safe—as safe as he can be given the circumstances—and my brother's more careful these days than he was before.”

Deallyra knew she wouldn’t be able to get Fundin to change his mind. “Very well. Just remind him to be _extra_ careful.”

Fundin gave her a short nod. “I’m riding to his place. Mind the boys.” In his short command to his wife was veiled something a bit more specific— _protect the boys_ was what he truly meant. Deallyra understood and motioned to the axe at her belt. Fundin nodded again and then strode away with purpose.

Fundin was soon astride a pony, trotting toward a small stone house surrounded by clusters of weeds and grass. In his haste he forgot to tie up his pony and simply left him straying to eat the grass. He leapt up the three stairs onto the porch and rapped sharply on the door.

Inside came a screaming noise and a couple of crashes, along with a deeper voice shouting a nasty curse. Fundin grimaced slightly. It was a warzone in there.

 _War_. That word was staring to appear too often in his mind.

The door was opened by a frazzled Dwarf woman named Neanélla. “Oh...” she panted. “Fundin. I’m sorry, we were just eating supper and the little one is having a fit about his green beans.”

Another scream pealed from the dining room and then suddenly silenced. Neanélla turned, surprised, and her husband emerged with a mute baby in his arms.

“What did you do?” Nean demanded breathlessly.

“I told him Uncle Fundin was here and he hushed right up for joy,” Gróin grumbled. “Here, brother, you take him. You’re who he wants.”

Fundin saw the lad smiling at him and it made his heart ache. He remembered when Dwalin was so small and how all he’d needed to stop crying was to be held by his Adad. Fundin took the Dwarfling and swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“How are you, Óin?” he asked quietly.

Óin cooed softly and seized a clump of Fundin’s beard, promptly sticking it in his mouth. Fundin raised an eyebrow at Gróin, who shrugged and shook his head.

“Well, come on in out of the doorway and sit down,” Neanélla suggested after a moment. Fundin had to stoop slightly as he entered the house.

He sank down wearily in a chair, one of the only ones that had no trace of mashed-up green beans.

“So, what brings you here, brother?” Gróin asked, leaning forward on his knees.

Fundin looked at his younger brother with grave brown eyes. “I need your support. I’m going to capture a gang and I want you to help me do it.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dwarves who prey on other Dwarves deserve any hatred they are given."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took SOOOO LOOONNGGG coming! I went sorta brain-dead for a long while, but here it is!

Thorin watched his aunt and cousins with a careful gaze. He could see the fatigue and fear in Deallyra and Balin’s eyes and he wished he could do something other than sit idle. After a few hours he could no longer remain patient and voiced his grievances to his aunt.

Deallyra smiled sadly. “I wish you could do something too, lad, but Dwalin has to win this fight on his own.”

“It’s not right,” Thorin growled angrily. “What kind of...of _ozodl Rukhsuls_ would do this to him?”

“Mind your tongue, nephew,” Deallyra said warningly. “I’ll not tolerate that.”

“It’s true,” Balin said quietly from where he sat by Dwalin’s cot. When Deallyra glanced at him in surprise, he looked up. Though there were still tears clinging to his lashes, his face was grave. “That’s what they are. They deserve every insult that Thorin can come up with and more.”

“Balin,” Deallyra said gently. “I’m not excusing what they did to your brother. Not in the _very_ least. But even those who have committed the worst of crimes can change.”

“They won’t.”

“How can you be sure of that? Do you know how they think?”

“I don’t know them,” Balin answered, voice still very soft. “But I just know. I’ve heard the tales of people who do things like this and worse. They never change, only become even more abhorred and hated for what they do.”

Though she didn’t openly reveal it, Deallyra was astonished to be hearing this from her kindhearted, mercy-tending son. Balin was sounding more like Fundin by the moment.

“Do you hate them, Balin?” Deallyra asked cautiously.

“I do. And Dwarves who prey on other Dwarves deserve any hatred they are given.”

Deallyra paused. “Balin...”

“I know what you would say: I’m supposed to have mercy towards them. But how can I, Ama?” Balin’s voice was becoming a snarl. “They beat my only brother within an inch of his life and I’m supposed to be merciful towards them?! No! I won’t! I hate them!”

The door opened at that moment and an unfamiliar Dwarf filled the entryway. Deallyra stood and said flatly, “Can I help you, sir?”

“Is this where the lad is bein’ kept? The one who was injured earlier today?” the Dwarf said immediately.

“Yes, he’s in here. I’m his mother,” Deallyra answered heavily.

Guaranteed that he was in the right place, the Dwarf stepped in and closed the door. “First, I’m sorry for what they did to your boy,” he began.

“Who are you?” Deallyra asked wearily.

The Dwarf gave a wry laugh and answered straightforwardly. “I’m the one who rescued him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ozodl Rukhsuls: wicked orc-sons


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Only Dwalin will be able to help us."

“And you were the one who saw them?” Fundin demanded.

Master Goili nodded, his beady eyes squinting nervously. “Well, I saw the stranger and your son. I recognized him; he’s one of my students as you know—”

“Get to the point, mister!” Gróin snarled. The teacher’s face went white and he gulped.

“I thought I saw some movement near the fence, but I was rather distracted at the moment. It may have been the culprits, but then again it may have been a hare.”

Fundin and Gróin shared a glance. “Thank you,” Fundin said crustily, not sounding thankful at all. The brothers departed, their displeasure finalized by the icy glare that Gróin sent Goili as he passed.

“That didn’t help us very much,” Gróin grumbled as the door of the school closed behind them.

“No,” Fundin agreed. The dejection and defeat in his voice caused Gróin to look up at him worriedly.

“We can at least examine the fence and see if we find any trace,” Gróin said comfortingly.

“Alright.” Fundin followed his brother as he shuffled over to the fence and hunkered down in the greensward. Fundin watched numbly as Gróin peered intently at the grass.

“Hmm...” Gróin murmured, fingering some bent and broken blades on the plants.

“Any animal could have done that,” Fundin said flatly.

“Aye,” Gróin agreed. “But the mud on these fence links likely came from some boots.” Fundin leaned down beside his brother and squinted at the dry dirt Gróin pointed out.

“A bit of mud isn’t going to help us,” Fundin sighed. “If we have no description of the fellows, we can search from here to Minas Tirith and never find them.” He paused in thought. “There is that bloke who sent them off...but we don’t know who or where he is either.”

“If that’s the case, brother,” Gróin replied seriously, standing, “then only Dwalin will be able to help us.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know your son that well, ma’am, but I think he’ll pull through.”

“ _You_ rescued Dwalin?” Thorin echoed, rising to his feet. Balin could see why his cousin was incredulous. The stranger was muscular but rather lean, and he was dressed in simple clothing that wasn’t apt for the atmosphere of a warrior.

“My name is Fori, son of Vori,” the Dwarf introduced himself with a short bow. “And yeh, I rescued him. I came for a visit.”

“I’m in a high debt to you, Master Fori,” Deallyra said quietly. “If you’d not been there...”

“Nah, he could’ve held them off just fine,” Fori replied casually.

“Obviously,” Balin sighed, gesturing to the cot. Fori looked past him and winced slightly.

“Ooh, that _is_ serious. Still, he was fightin’ well before that taller fellow started bangin’ him up with a club. I don’t know your son that well, ma’am, but I think he’ll pull through.” Fori shrugged his thin shoulders. “Mind if I relax? Take off the cloak and such?”

Deallyra nodded silently and Fori shook off his hood. Thorin’s eyes went wide. Fori grinned widely, answering his unasked question.

“Yeh, I know. It’s a family style.” Fori’s hair was parted in three auburn peaks which joined in the back to form a thick braid. Once he’d slipped out of his cloak, Fori threw it onto a chair and then sat.

There was a moment of awkward silence and then Balin sat forward. “Excuse me, sir. Did—”

“Oh, no, no. Please don't call me that, cos I quite prefer my name,” the other Dwarf interrupted.

Balin pressed his lips together. “Fori. You saw the group that was attacking him?”

“Indeed I did.”

“And you saw the direction in which they escaped?”

“Aye.”

“Well, then, Master Fori, I think you may be able to help my adad. He’s gone looking for them, but he doesn’t know where they have gone.”

Fori raised an eyebrow. “So your adad is somehow related to this problem?”

Balin blinked. “Dwalin is my brother,” he said at last, with a sliver of resentment in his tone. Fori leaned forward, interested.

“Ah! _Dwalin_. That’s that ’un over there.” He motioned to the cot and Balin nodded slowly. “And you lot are his family. It’s good to meet you.” His eyes swept over each of them, but rested a moment longer on Thorin. He squinted, as though trying to place Thorin’s face, and then he sat up straight. “Oi! You...you’re the prince!”

“Thorin, son of Thráin,” Thorin confirmed, trying to sound properly royal. Fori laughed, ignoring how hollow it sounded in the despair of the room.

“Well, this is a surprise. Wait until Jalane hears about it.”

“Jalane? Is that your wife?” Deallyra questioned.

“Aye, that’s her. She wanted to come, but she’s weak cos of her pregnancy. We’re expectin’ our second child soon.” If Fori had been grinning before, he was beaming now. “Our firstborn, he’s a year old. His name is Dori. If the next one is another boy, we plan on namin’ him Nori...”

Fori proceeded to tell them everything about himself and his family. Thorin started to grow impatient, but then he decided that maybe this distraction would be good for Balin and Deallyra. When Fori once glanced over at him, their eyes locked and Thorin realized that was what he thought as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we all know who this is, don't we? ;7


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could feel pressure in his head and tingling tremors in his limbs, simply begging him to be violent.

After endlessly searching for any signs, Fundin knew that the trail had grown cold. “Well, I suppose you’d best be off home,” he said sadly to Gróin. The sky had long since grown dark. The moon stood as a frothy white orb and stars were blinking sleepily above.

“Fundin...I’d like to take you somewhere or get you dinner, something. I haven’t been able to spend much time with you lately,” Gróin sighed. “I want to do something more to help.”

“You’ve done more than enough,” Fundin replied flatly. “Go home.”

Gróin leaned back, peering at him intently. After a moment his eyes narrowed and his jaw set. Fundin knew what that meant.

“You’re getting _that_ _look_ , little brother.”

“That’s right, I am,” Gróin said sharply. He latched onto Fundin’s sleeve. “We’re going out.”

“Your lad will need to be put to bed.”

“Nean’ can take care of Óin just fine,” Gróin insisted. “You need to get away for a while, stop thinking of your problems. I can already see you’re getting wired and that could be... _regrettable_ afterwards. Remember when you used to get wired when we were Dwarflings?”

Fundin didn’t want to remember cracking Gróin’s ribs in one of his rages. He didn’t want to remember the guilt and horror he felt when their adad had spoken to him afterward.

“I know you have self-control enough to keep from hurting your brother,” Farin said severely. “And if you don’t have it you need to get it!” It was then that Fundin learned of his brother’s rare heart condition and he’d sworn that he would keep his anger in check.

But now he felt the old familiar signs rising: tightness in his chest, and thoughts racing through his mind faster than he could process them. He could feel pressure in his head and tingling tremors in his limbs, simply begging him to be violent.

Fundin clenched his teeth and stopped, pulling Gróin up short. The brothers stared at each other. Gróin’s eyes filled with fear. Though they were both sturdy adult Dwarves, Fundin was still so much larger than him. He was clearly angry. Gróin decided it wasn’t worth his nose to press the matter. He swallowed hard and released Fundin’s sleeve, backing away.

“On second thought...y-you’re right. I’d best go home to the little one.” He fled into the darkness without another word.

Fundin let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and slowly sank to the ground, burying his head in his hands, utterly depressed now that the spell had passed. He was thoroughly alone now; he’d lost his brother too. What was wrong with him? Perhaps he was the one who had a condition. Whatever it was, he hoped that he could take it out on something that deserved it.

 _Like the curs who took down Dwalin_ , Fundin told himself. _I’ll find them, I swear to Mahal I will, and show them the true meaning of pain_.

He just hoped he could do it soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The things that Fundin was feeling are symptoms of intermittent explosive disorder. I got my research from this site in case anyone's interested: www.mayoclinic.com


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Please, I want the light..." ___

Dwalin was panicking. The last he’d known he was being attacked by Dolaran and his lackeys, but now he was trapped within a fold of a fold of Oblivion.

As the darkness all around filled his vision, Dwalin could feel nothing and everything. He couldn’t feel his heart pulsing, nor could he feel the dread chills prickling up his spine. He couldn’t feel them, but he knew they were there. He knew he was moving, but his body seemed like stone. He was going nowhere and everywhere. Dwalin was shouting, pleading for anyone to come and rescue him, but everything—his voice, the rattling of chains that held him, even his breathing—was muted by the blackness.

At last he sank to what he believed was the ground, curling up on his side and shutting his eyes. It made no difference; with his eyes closed it was just as dark as with them open.

 _Rescue me, rescue me, rescue me,_ he whispered into the murk. _Please,_ _I want the light..._ When there was no answer, Dwalin quieted. Even though no one was there he tried desperately not to cry. As he lay there in utter, despairing silence, he almost dared to believe that he’d heard something.

He sat up, listening anxiously. Was that a faint humming noise? Eagerly he listened again and shouted for sheer joy as he heard it again. The chains binding him thinned and snapped. He stood and could hear his feet land on solid ground. There was a pinprick of light in the distance and he began running as fast as he could.

The light grew stronger; Dwalin could nearly taste it as he dashed closer. The brilliant sun was what enveloped him now and as it did Dwalin began to feel a dull throbbing in his head. The throbbing grew stronger and rather uncomfortable. Dwalin slipped, falling flat on his back. However, his landing was softer than expected and when he opened his eyes he found he was on a cot.

His muscles were stiff and he had a headache and his bones ached horribly, but Dwalin paid this no mind as he recognized voices in whatever room he was in. Dwalin forced his head to turn. His vision swam, but two half-images fused to become one and he almost began laughing and crying at once. It was his brother.

Balin hadn’t noticed that he was awake yet; he was looking at a different Dwarf who was talking. Dwalin didn’t recognize him, but he didn’t really care. He was far too happy to see his brother. His throat cleared as he swallowed slowly and then he spoke.

“Balin.”

His brother startled at the voice. As he turned and locked eyes with Dwalin, the color drained from his face. Balin stared at him and croaked, “Dwal—”

Dwalin managed a weak grin. “Miss me?”

Balin dove for the bed and clung to his brother, trembling. Dwalin hugged him back, whispering in surprise, “Hey, it’s alright, _Bahyrumùrad_. I’m fine...”

“B-but you weren’t fine before,” Balin answered hoarsely. “We were...we thought...” He buried his face in Dwalin’s shirt, breathing hard. Dwalin was too surprised to do anything about it.

The others still hadn’t recovered from their shock. Then Deallyra started choking up. “I...I have to tell your father!” she gasped, standing and wiping at her eyes. She abruptly left the room and Balin burst into tears as soon as she was gone.

Dwalin was silent as he curled his unbroken arm over his brother’s back. This wasn’t the welcome he’d been expecting, but it was still...good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Balin's true name: Bahyrumùrad, 'wise soul'


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Never _hesitate."__

Fundin’s heavy boots kicked up earthy clouds of dust as he trudged wearily down the street. He didn’t know where he was going; all he knew was that he’d get there eventually. He found himself heading for the pub when at that moment someone shouted his name.

“Fundin!”

Said Dwarf turned and spotted his wife running toward him.

“Lyra,” Fundin sighed dejectedly. “I tried to find them, but the trail grew cold. Then in the middle of it all I lost—”

“Would you shut your mouth for a moment and listen to me?!” Deallyra cried. “It’s Dwalin! He’s awake!”

Fundin stared at his wife, dumbstruck. Then he ran. He was far taller than Deallyra and his long strides outdistanced her. She was left behind, but Fundin dare not stop. He hoped his wife would understand.

Bursting into the room, Fundin fell beside his younger son’s cot, panting.

Dwalin blinked in surprise at his father’s unexpected appearance. “Adad.”

Fundin released a breath and pulled Balin also into the embrace that followed. “ _Mê_ _nidoyîth_ ,” he murmured quietly. Deallyra appeared at that moment and she was beckoned in as well. They sat there, as a family united, for a long time that seemed a single second to each of them.

Fori watched and waited. When he saw there would be no end arriving soon, he threw his cloak across his arm and started for the door.

“Wait!” Dwalin cried suddenly. Fori turned back and Fundin noticed him for the first time. “Adad, this...this is the one who rescued me,” Dwalin introduced the stranger.

Fundin stood and, though he was at least a foot taller than Fori, he grasped the fellow’s shoulders. “I’m in your debt,” Fundin said gravely, carefully touching foreheads with the other Dwarf and sealing his words as an oath of repayment.

As soon as he was released, Fori took a step back, stammering a bit. “Th-that’s not necessary, sir. All I did was chase away some bullies.”

“‘All you did’?” Fundin repeated in shock. “‘All you did’ was _save my son’s life_. If I can do anything to repay what you’ve done for me, don’t hesitate. _Never_ hesitate.”

Fori’s mouth opened, but he didn’t seem to have words. At last he shrugged his shoulders with a rueful smile. “Hm...Somethin’ to eat might be good for a start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Mê nidoyîth: My young boys


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tyrant stepped forward and began making quick steps, like a tiptoed dance.

Balin returned to school the next day, dressed in simple clothing and keeping his head down. The fact that Balin had a long beard but no moustache made him stand out and he was in no mood to answer the other children’s questions about his brother’s three-day coma.

Nonetheless one of his classmates recognized him during the midday outside-break. “Balin, Balin!” she cried, leaping to her feet. Balin groaned under his breath. Like everyone else, he knew that Lonilli was taken with him. Deep inside Balin appreciated her interest, but sometimes his introverted side begged for time alone. This was one of those instances, but Balin swore to be kind and turned when she called his name.

“Hello, Lonilli,” he greeted her.

Lonilli seized his arm, her champagne-brown eyes concerned. “I heard about your brother. Is he alright?”

“Aye, he woke and started speaking last night, praise the good lord Mahal,” Balin replied.

Lonilli breathed a sigh of relief. “It must have been terrible: just...wondering. Wondering if he’d wake up.”

Balin slowly nodded. “Aye,” he repeated somberly. Lonilli had no idea how terrible it truly was. He’d feared that each of his own breaths was one less for Dwalin. Changing the subject he asked, “How are _your_ brothers?”

“Lonan and Lunier?” Lonilli wrinkled her nose. “Just as infuriating as ever.”

“You should spend some more time with them,” Balin told her seriously. “You never know if...something might happen.”

Lonilli’s grip on his arm tightened. “Something’s about to happen now. Look at those fellows over there. They seem rather shifty.”

Following her gaze, Balin spotted a group of older Dwarf lads loitering by the fence. Balin squinted, shading his eyes in the sun. One of them looked familiar. Balin searched his meticulous memory and remembered. The largest one was Dolaran. Balin felt a cold anger settle down like a cloud over him. He and Dolaran had gotten in a wrangle a while back. The gleam in Dolaran’s eye was enough to tell Balin that he was back for more trouble now.

“Those are the kinds that never learn,” Balin answered grimly. “Just ignore them and maybe they’ll leave.” Unlikely, but still a small possibility.

Dolaran’s head turned and his eyes locked with Balin’s. Even from that distance, Balin could see a sneer surface on the other Dwarf’s face. The gleam of his white teeth in the sun stabbed at Balin’s eyes, but he wasn’t so far blinded that he didn’t see Dolaran’s next action. The tyrant stepped forward and began making quick steps, like a tiptoed dance. Balin instantly recognized it—Dwalin’s best dodging technique.

Paralyzed where he stood, Balin could do naught but gawk as Dolaran continued his mocking moves.

“Balin?” Lonilli asked apprehensively. “What’s wrong?”

“He did it,” Balin gulped. “He was the one who—”

“—who hurt Dwalin?!” Lonilli gasped.

Balin pulled his arm out of her grip, his fists tightening.

“Balin. Balin, I know what you’re thinking, but you can’t take them down all alone,” Lonilli said urgently. “If he took down Dwalin—Dwalin’s at least five inches taller than you! If you try to fight them—!”

“Keep out of it, Lonilli. I’m going to talk to Dolaran.” Balin stomped forward, eyes blazing with ire. Dolaran paused and when he saw Balin approaching, he grinned.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balin. Mahal, couldn’t it have been any other day?!

Thorin gave a sigh as he flipped through his study book. He’d wanted to stay with Dwalin, but his father had insisted he go back to school.

“Now that there’s less reason to worry, you need to return to your duties,” Thráin had said sternly.

Even now the other children were outside enjoying their break and he was stuck in here reading. Well...daydreaming was more like it. Thorin’s eyes were on his reader, but his mind was wandering. Ever since Dwalin knew who Fori was he’d wanted to spend more time with him, and today he had finally been given leave to go to the forge and watch Fori work. Besides his own home, the forge was Dwalin’s favorite place to be.

“I just love to hear the hammers ringing and see the carts of steel, knowing that something good will come out of them,” Dwalin had once enthused. Thorin wanted to be there with him now. He liked seeing Dwalin’s rare smile; it seemed he was so often expressionless or angry.

As he scanned the uninteresting words, Thorin wondered if Dwalin was in pain right now. The break in his arm would hinder him greatly and his ribs were likely cracked in unhelpful places. Would he get out of shape in his time of healing? Thorin rejected that thought immediately. Knowing Dwalin, he would be so restless that he would never sit still.

That worried Thorin also. What if his cousin only worsened his injuries? Would his wounds trouble him for life if they didn’t heal properly?

Trying to push those thoughts from his mind, Thorin raised his head and looked out the window for a moment. He blinked in the sunlight that filtered through and then looked back to his book. All of a sudden Thorin startled and jerked back to the window.

A dust cloud was rising from the front yard of the school. There were no dust storms expected in the area. That could only mean one thing—a fight.

But who was the fight between? Thorin leapt to his feet and pressed his face to the glass, trying to see the combatants.

“Prince Thorin,” his tutor, Hadrich, warned.

“Hush!” Thorin said sharply without even turning his head, taking advantage of his high status to disrespect his teacher. As the grimy haze dissipated slightly in different places, Thorin’s eyes caught flashes of dark brown hair and torn maroon clothing. Then a boot arced through the air and landed on its side. When Thorin caught sight of the distinctly curved toe of the boot he knew exactly to whom it belonged.

Balin. _Mahal, couldn’t it have been any other day?!_

“Excuse me, sir, but I need to take care of something!” Thorin cried, dashing from the room before Hadrich could stop him or even open his mouth to speak.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin gaped in utter disbelief, not sure if the sight before him was real.

Dwalin sat in a chair near Fori’s working area, fidgeting impatiently. Fori had tied a scarf around his eyes as soon as he’d sat him down, explaining that he was making a surprise for him. It had been a good number of hours and Dwalin’s eyes were tired of trying to pierce the cloth. He couldn’t untie the double knots with just one hand, so he was forced to wait. And wait. And wait.

At least he could listen to the sounds of work. Dwalin strained his ears and heard a quiet sound that could only have come from a living thing. Then there was Fori’s voice, gentler than he usually spoke, “Oi, don’t start snufflin’, _entlin_. Dwarves are supposed to like the heat.”

Dwalin straightened, calling out, “Who’s with you, Master Fori?”

Fori laughed softly. “This mornin’ I got on my knee and begged my wife to let me bring the little one today. He’s a strong one, he is. Likely be a forger by the time he hits four-foot-two.”

Dwalin chuckled a bit. “Is that why I kept hearing tools fall?”

Fori’s smile could be heard in his voice as he replied, “You’ve a sharp ear. Hey, lad, you think your hands are planning to grow much?”

“Why do you ask?” Dwalin asked suspiciously.

“Durin’s beard, you’re stubborn. You goin’ to tell me or what?”

Dwalin sighed crossly. “My ama and adad don’t think they’re going to.”

“They’re probably right. Everyone knows that Dwarven hands are the parts that grow fastest. Thanks, mate.”

Dwalin listened to the hammer that Fori was using, but it told nothing about what his new friend was making.

After a while Fori spoke again. “You’re a smart lad, Dwalin. That’s a great thing, but that won’t always help you out of a scrape.” Dwalin blinked in the sudden light as his blindfold was whisked away. “Hopefully these will,” Fori concluded, holding forth his creation.

Dwalin gaped in utter disbelief, not sure if the sight before him was real. He’d never seen such contraptions before. Wide, smooth leather straps to wrap around his wrists, with thick chains hooked onto them. Incisive prongs were able to be slipped down his fingers to fit snugly on his knuckles.

“Let me put ’em on you,” Fori urged. When he was finished, Fori stepped back. Dwalin stared at his wrists and the wicked weapons clamped onto them. Simply seeing them made Dwalin feel...larger. Stronger. Dori, who was strapped to Fori’s back, peered over his adad’s shoulder with wide eyes.

“I call ’em knuckle-dusters,” Fori explained proudly in the stunned silence that followed. “If you flex your fingers or make fists, the prongs’ll raise slightly. You can rake ’em across someone’s face or just gut the fellow straight through if you want to make it easy. Of course,” Fori added with a wink, “if I’m right about you, you like a challenge.”

Dwalin finally was able to tear his eyes away from his incredible gift to the giver. “I don’t know what to say...”

Fori leaned down and lightly placed a hand on Dwalin’s wounded arm. “This’ll heal, lad. And once it does, you go out. You find those brutes who did it and use your hurkumalak to kick some jacksie. Will you do that?”

“Of course,” Dwalin promised. “Maybe you’ll be there to see it.”

Dori squealed suddenly. With a customary grin brightening his face, Fori reached over his shoulder to stroke his son’s downy hair. “He don’t mean you, little boy. Your time comes later.”

Dori made a tiny discontented sound and pressed his face in Fori’s neck. Dwalin had to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *entlin: sweetheart, duckling


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When you wake up— _if _you wake up—you'll be at my house with my father to answer to."__

“Traitorous monster!” Balin screamed, wetting his knuckles with blood as he settled a swift blow to Dolaran’s nose. “ _Beardless Orc!_ ”

Dolaran stumbled back a step but recovered quickly, dodging Balin’s next swipe and lashing out. Balin winced as the blow glanced off his ribcage, a sharp sting fading fast.

“Your brother was weak, you know,” Dolaran declared with a cross between a sneer and a grimace, “Just like you are.”

“Then why is your clique lying beaten on the ground? And why’s your nose in such bad shape?” Balin barked back, dancing nimbly away from another swing and retaliating with a well-aimed kick to the other Dwarf’s femur. Dolaran was off balance for a moment, which gave Balin time to pitch an assault at his enemy’s jaw. Balin had gotten his mother’s bony fingers, but that didn’t mean his fists couldn’t hurt. A lot.

Growling in pain, Dolaran made a downward swing, trying to bring his arms down on Balin’s skull. Balin blocked the effort with his own arms, which sent spears of pain rippling through them, but he forced his mind to dull the registration. As Dolaran staggered back from the collision of bone, Balin pounced like an agitated wildcat. He threw all his weight on Dolaran’s shoulders, driving him to the ground.

“There are some ways that I’m unlike my brother,” Balin averred, curling his fingers around Dolaran’s neck. “He fights using brute strength to dominate without much use of his head, while I process every movement, every twitch. But I _am_ like him in this: when family is threatened, I take no excuses.” Balin’s grip tightened and Dolaran found himself hard-pressed to breathe. “I’m not going to let you apologize, or beg for mercy, or cry or plead with me. I’m going to throttle you _just_ like this until you pass out. Then when you wake up— _if_ you wake up—you’ll be at my house with my father to answer to.”

“Balin!” a familiar voice shouted. Balin’s natural instinct was to look for the source, giving Dolaran a split second advantage. Clapping his hands around Balin’s waist, Dolaran hoisted Balin up and threw him over his head. Balin somersaulted, yelping as he hit the fence. Dolaran leapt to his feet and whirled around, the toe of his large boot plunging into Balin’s gut. Balin choked, doubling over on his knees.

With a furious cry Thorin lunged. He was smaller than Dwalin but larger than Balin—he’d be able to take this brute for a while, but help was needed sooner rather than later. Fortunately in his peripheral Thorin saw two younger forms approaching, heard them screaming cold murder, and knew that he would soon have backup. Frerin and Dís were on their way. He and his siblings had a history of school fights with enemy bullies and they weren’t called the Trio of Thunder for nothing.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh...horrific mistake."

“I’m going to the school to show Balin my knuckle-dusters. It should be time for the outside break right about now. Will you come?” Dwalin asked eagerly.

Fori considered. “I ought to get the baby home...”

“ _Please?_ ”

With a relenting smile the older Dwarf nodded, tightening the straps on Dori's baby-pouch. “Fine, fine. Just so long as you promise not to get yourself too excitable. You’re still recoverin’, you know.”

“Yeah, I know, all too well,” Dwalin sighed, his pleasure somewhat lessened as wounds hindered his movements. “I promise I’ll take it easy.”

“That’s a good lad,” Fori said approvingly. “Now let’s get on.”

The two walked in companionable silence away from the forge, but after a while of contemplation Dwalin had a question.

“Fori, you were the one who rescued me from Dolaran and his gang. Why were you at the school in the first place?”

Fori shrugged. “Y’know, that’s the thing. I was just wanderin’ and felt a sudden urge to look about the school. Perhaps it was Mahal’s work that I happened there just when you needed help.”

“Perhaps it was,” Dwalin agreed thoughtfully. He laughed slightly and nudged the adult. “You could have gotten there a bit sooner. Might have spared my arm.”

Fori quirked an eyebrow. “Take that up with the Maker.”

“There’s the school,” Dwalin changed the subject, pointing with his good arm. His mouth twisted in a puzzled frown. “What’s happening?”

“Is a dust storm comin’ to town?” Fori asked abruptly.

“Why do you ask?”

“If that’s not a dust storm, it’s a fight.”

Dwalin swallowed. “Do you think Dolaran got someone else?”

“No...”

Dwalin breathed a sigh of relief.

“...It’s way more than one.”

The relief caught in the lad’s throat. With uneasy glances at each other Fori and Dwalin hastened toward the fence. Dwalin craned his neck this way and that, trying to see past the ring of shouting onlookers. He caught glimpses of dark hair but that wasn’t enough to determine who the combatants were. Then, flying headlong through the air, someone tumbled out of the haze.

As the younger Dwarf bounced back onto his feet, his furious green eyes locked with Dwalin’s. Dwalin’s mouth spoke the name soundlessly.

_Frerin?_

Dwalin’s younger cousin, bruised and bloody, set his jaw and turned his back on Dwalin, lunging back into the fray. Dwalin gaped at the cloud, knowing without a doubt that if Frerin was in a fight, Thorin and Dís were in there too. He didn’t, however, expect to hear Thorin bellow.

“Pin his left arm, Balin! Dís, get his right!”

Dwalin could barely process what was happening. All he heard was ‘Balin’ and ‘Dís’, and when he turned Fori wasn’t beside him. The yells in the dust cloud turned wild, almost rabid to Dwalin’s ears. The onlookers roared as well, but suddenly both the dust and the shouts dissipated. Dwalin could see his family now, as well as Dolaran, who stood clinging something against his chest. Fori, who stood in front of Dwalin’s cousins and brother, lifted himself to his full height, his newly-dirtied shirt visibly tightening as his muscles flexed. Quiet gasps broke out as a knife crept into Fori’s palm. Then he was speaking, his words to Dolaran cold and deadly as shards of ice.

“Oh...horrific mistake. You put my son back in his pouch where you found him, you vile coward, or believe me when I say that you will _never_ live to have one of your own.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It matches."

Fundin leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his broad chest. Across from the Captain of the Guard was Prince Thráin, whose expression was cold and stony. The two were waiting for their wives and children to return from the medical ward. Fori and his wife Jalane would be appearing also, as would Dolaran and his parents.

 _Dolaran_. Fundin now had a name that he could hold responsible for Dwalin’s bruises. He hated every syllable of it, even more so since Balin had been attacked too. How dare a small-minded Dourhand Dwarf lay hand on his boys! If Thráin hadn't been the first one to break up the school fight...

These were the thoughts running through Fundin’s head as the others expected appeared and took their seats. Deallyra sat stiffly to the left of her husband, her hand slipping to rest on his. Balin and Dwalin sat on his right. Fundin wound a comforting arm around Balin, who was shaking ever so slightly.

The silence of the room was interrupted as Fori and Jalane stalked in with faces bright with righteous anger. After them followed Fundin’s friend Hifur, his dismayed voice ringing out.

“...But won’t you take him with you? I don’t understand what you want me to—”

Fori’s boot heel screeched as its owner whirled and seized Hifur by the collar. “What I want you to do is take care of him,” Fori snarled. “Hold him. Talk to him. Comfort him. Never put him down. Don’t let anyone else touch him. Care for Dori like that child you have in the servant nursery until I relieve you. Do you understand now?”

Hifur nodded slowly, his grip tightening on Dori’s tiny form. “Yes, I do.” Then his eyes went wide and his face lost some color. “Wait...how did you know about Bifur?”

“I have ways,” Fori growled, placing a hand in the middle of Hifur’s chest and propelling him back across the threshold, enabling him to slam the door in his face. Fori then took his wife’s arm and led her to a chair. Fori and Fundin met eyes and saw barely suppressed rage mirrored back at each other.

Soon afterward a bulky, defiant-faced Dwarf skulked in, tailed by his parents. Fundin felt a tremor of adrenaline jerk through Balin’s shoulder blades and he tightened his grip on his son.

“Greetings all. I am Torogan, son of Norintan,” Dolaran’s father introduced himself with only a thin glaze of chill to his tone. “This is my wife—”

“Narrahilda, daughter of Arrahyna,” the Dwarrowdam announced disdainfully.

“Madame Narrahilda,” Deallyra interrupted frostily, “your tone very conspicuously lacks respect. Do you understand that you are in the presence of Thráin and Malyan, Crown Prince and Princess under the Mountain?”

“Yes, I do. But obviously _you’re_ no princess,” Narrahilda added arrantly. “What’s your business?”

“Your son assaulted mine with no cause,” Deallyra spat.

“Deallyra,” Fundin said in an undertone. His wife fell silent, the shimmering beads in her sable-brown beard clacking as she set her jaw.

Visibly clenching his teeth, Thráin motioned for Torogan and Narrahilda to take their seats. “Now, there has been a disagreement among our children,” Thráin began. Dolaran snorted contemptuously and received a warning glance for it from his father.

“Whatever it is that these Longbeard Dwarflings accused my son of, he didn’t do it,” Narrahilda announced.

“Really?” Malyan spoke for the first time, her tone sharp as a newly forged axe. “Then perhaps my eldest can correct his cousins’ error by explaining where he collected _his_ bruises.”

“And from what I deem, they’re a bit older than Dwarflings,” Fori’s wife Jalane added mordantly, folding her arms over her pregnant stomach.

The discussion continued round and round the circle until at last Fundin called everyone’s attention. “We can settle it this way. There is a very prominent fist mark inflicted on Frerin’s face. Line Dolaran’s hand up with the mark and see if it fits,” he announced.

Thráin stood, solemnly beckoning his second-born forward. Dolaran shuffled his feet as his father pushed him forward, clearly uncomfortable and reluctant. After a moment or two he surrendered to the pressuring stares of the group and allowed Thráin to compare his fist to the mark on Frerin’s face.

“Deallyra, your eyes are sharp and clever. See if it matches,” Thráin instructed.

“It matches,” Deallyra said quietly without even rising.

“It’s a trick!” Narrahilda’s indignant voice rang out. “Of course this woman would lie for her children, the cheating viper she is!”

“Mind how you speak to my mother,” Balin growled at Narrahilda.

“Mind how _you_ speak to _mine_ , you little—” Dolaran barked, stepping at Balin.

“Don’t touch my brother again!” Dwalin shouted, leaping to his feet.

“ _Peace!_ ” Thráin boomed.

“Beg pardon, but if you wanted peace, mate, you shouldn’t have brought us all into one room. This is going to end in a fight and I just want to make somethin’ clear— _I’ll_ be the one to slit Dolaran’s throat,” Fori announced eagerly, leaping to his feet with a dagger that appeared from thin air.

The meeting exploded into chaos.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Find Fundin, son of mine. I want to speak to the Dourhands post haste."

Thorin, Frerin, and Dís stood in a small huddle, awaiting the summons of their father Thráin. Through a crack in the door before them, Thorin watched his grandfather’s expression change with each word his father said. Thrór definitely had not been expecting such word from Thráin on what had seemed a normal day.

“...These Dourhands have taken their rivalry with the Longbeards to the top level, sire,” Thráin concluded, remnants of his previous rage thinly veiled in his tone.

Thrór ran a weary hand over his brow. “And where are they now?”

“Captain Fundin... _steered_ them to the dungeons after the youngest went after Thorin.”

Thrór sat up straighter at that. His eyes darkened and he leaned forward in his chair. “He went after _Thorin_?” he repeated. The king’s face showed no emotion, but Thorin knew to fear for the Dourhands. Something more threatening than surprise had thickened Thrór’s tone.

Thráin nodded grimly. “Aye, and after Frerin and Dís as well.”

That brought Thrór to his feet. “Where are they?” he demanded, fists doubled at his sides.

“Waiting outside,” Thráin replied, knowing that his father’s next order would be to summon them.

Thorin gestured to his siblings and they filed into the room. Thrór strode down to them, kneeling to be at their height.

“Mahal’s beard!” he gasped, resting his hands on his heir’s shoulders. “Thorin, are you still in pain?”

By this age, Thorin was used to being the first concern. “It only hurts a little,” he answered calmly. “He didn’t punch that hard.”

“Yes, he did!” Frerin blurted out, motioning to the large bruise on his cheek.

“He was a really big Dwarf,” Dís declared somberly. “Even taller and stronger than Dwalin.”

Thrór stared at them, brows knit in concern. “If he was so dangerous, why did you approach him in the first place?”

“He attacked Balin!” the three shouted at once.

Thrór stood abruptly and turned to Thráin. “Find Fundin, son of mine. I want to speak to the Dourhands post haste.”

Thráin bowed and strode off, placing a hand on each child’s head as he passed. When he was gone, Thrór guided the young trio to a set of chairs nearby.

After they were all settled, Thrór entreated them, “Explain all that’s happened. I can see in your father’s face that there was more he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell me. He clearly wanted me to come to you.”

Thorin took a breath. “It would be better if we had Dwalin and Balin in here, because it started with them. But we’ll tell you what we know...”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I never realized what it meant to 'see red'."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Abbad: I am here

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Dwalin pressed.

Balin gave Dwalin a wavering smile. “Yes, brother, I am.”

“How are your ribs?”

“Bruised and sore. Dolaran has a hard knee,” Balin sighed. “And yours?”

Dwalin scowled. “Same.” He studied Balin uneasily. “You look really pale.”

Balin laughed faintly, shaking his head. “You’re worse than Lonilli. I’m fine.” Then he collapsed to the floor.

Dwalin yelped in alarm and fell to his knees before his brother, gripping his arms. “Balin, Balin! What’s wrong? Are you dehydrated? Bleeding internally? What do you need? Should I get the doctor? Or Ama and Adad? Talk to me!”

“I’ve never been so angry,” Balin whispered.

Blinking in bewilderment, Dwalin repeated, “You’re angry?”

“No, not anymore. But I was in the schoolyard.” Balin’s dazed brown eyes met Dwalin’s confused silver ones. “Just before the fight, Dolaran mocked your dodging techniques just to spite me. I never realized I could get that angry. I never realized what it meant to ‘see red’.” Biting his lip, Balin ducked his head shamefacedly.

Dwalin was unsure if he should thank Balin for defending him or scold him for disregarding his own safety. Eventually he ended up wordlessly placing a hand at the back of Balin’s neck and touching their foreheads together. Balin shivered at the contact.

“Are you wearing rings? Your fingers are cold.”

Dwalin had completely forgotten about his knuckle-dusters until that moment. He smiled slightly and presented them to Balin. Balin’s eyes went wide with disbelief.

“Those are beautiful!”

If Dwalin had been showing anyone else, he would have been insulted, would have wanted something more to the likes of ‘impressive’, ‘well-crafted’, or ‘dangerous’. Still, when Balin said ‘beautiful’, it was different.

“Mr. Fori took me to the forge and made them for me,” Dwalin announced proudly.

“He’s taken a fondness to you,” Balin commented. He smiled for the first time in hours, adding teasingly, “Though I can’t see why.”

Dwalin gently shoved him as they rose to their feet. “One would think you would after ninety-nine years with me. Hey, do you think we should go see how Hifur is doing with Dori?”

“Why not?”

When they entered the servant nursery, Dwalin realized that they had arrived just in time. Hifur was frantically trying to hush Dori’s agitated whimpering.

“Calm down now, lad. You don’t want me in trouble with your adad, do you?”

As he closed the door behind him Dwalin suggested, “Hifur, let me hold him.”

Hifur startled at Dwalin and Balin’s sudden appearance. “But his father told me I couldn’t let anyone else hold him!” he protested nervously.

“Fori trusts me with him,” Dwalin assured him. “Dori might recognize me. Give.”

“Dwalin, your arm,” Balin reminded him concernedly.

Dwalin shook his head. “If Fori finds Dori crying and knows that I did nothing to help, he’ll do worse to me.” Wincing only slightly, Dwalin held out his arms for the baby. Hifur warily handed Dori over to Dwalin.

Hifur’s expression was one of relief as Dori quieted, more interested in grasping the ends of Dwalin’s scruffy beard growth than in crying any longer. Then another of the children in the room began the telltale whimpering.

“Oh, no.” Hifur dashed forward, scooping up the other baby with the gentleness of a father. “ _Abbad_ , my little one...” he cooed softly, thumbing away the glistening tear-streaks on the child’s pudgy infant cheeks.

“Is that your son?” Balin asked in surprise.

Hifur smiled proudly. “Aye, this is Bifur.” Bifur seemed to realize his father was talking to someone. Blinking tears from wide, dark eyes, Bifur reached out to Balin.

Dwalin rocked Dori back and forth, watching as Balin offered his finger to Hifur’s curious son. With a quiet sigh Dwalin sank down into a chair. For a moment he could pretend that everything was fine.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Orcish cult had bred this family?

“Thráin told me that you ‘steered’ them here to the prisons. Give me the definition of ‘steered’, Fundin.” Thrór didn’t bother to speak formally with his cousin.

Fundin answered through gritted teeth. “Don’t worry. The medics already tended their wounds.”

Thrór sighed. “If our truce with the Dourhands is to go through, we must treat them with respect—”

“And you have my word that I will do so,” Fundin cut in, “if they treat me and _my_ family with the same esteem. So far there have been none who hold up their end of that bargain.”

Thrór made no further attempt to admonish his Captain of Guard and simply shook his head. “Accompany me, if you would.”

Fundin inclined his head and strode ahead of Thrór, guiding him down the tunnels. Within the deepest corner, Thrór and Fundin could hear obnoxious arguing that echoed down the hall.

“Who exactly were these lads that you bullied, Dolaran?!”

“N-No one important—”

“They must be pretty important if the Royal Family has gotten involved, so you tell me right now who they are!”

“Their names are Balin and Dwalin. They’re just a couple of thin-beards who couldn’t mind their own business.”

Fundin stiffened. His own two sons, _‘thin-beards’?_ What Orcish cult had bred this family? From what Fundin had seen, Narrahilda, the wife, was dominant in the family while her husband Torogan hung back. That alone was a sign that Dourhand ways were not Longbeard ways. That and the fact that Torogan had allowed his livid wife to delegate for his family in the meeting.

The argument among the Dourhand family quieted when they saw the approaching Longbeards. Thrór went first, approaching the cell with as much amiability he could muster in his anger. It wasn’t much.

“You know who I am, do you not?” the King asked, getting down to business right away.

The three slowly nodded.

“Good, because I don’t feel like going through all the formalities of introducing myself.” Thrór narrowed his eyes at Dolaran. The action was slight, but still enough to make the lad tense. “The two boys you attacked were not ‘just a couple of thin-beards’. They are descendants of the house of Durin, the only children of my Captain of Guard. You attacked them without cause, as well as my birthright heir and his siblings. This is what I’ve heard from my brethren, and now I want to hear your side. Explain to me what happened and omit no detail.”

Dolaran gaped at Thrór, looking much like a bug-eyed fish in Fundin’s opinion. Then his father nudged him and he snapped from his daze.

“It...Dwalin is of the line...er, I didn’t know it was Dwalin at the time, but he and I were arguing about who—who was stronger,” Dolaran stammered. “Then we got in a fight—”

“Who initiated it?” Thrór interrupted.

Dolaran gulped, his eyes darting nervously between Thrór and Fundin, who loomed darkly behind like a behemoth wraith.

“I guess it was me.”

“Sire,” Fundin said through clenched teeth. “I am constrained to point out that this was no mere bout between _two_ lads. Dolaran had companions who joined in preying upon the Longbeard.”

“Noted,” Thrór acknowledged. If Fundin had blinked, he would have missed the fleeting signal in iglishmêk that Thrór directed to him. He was telling him to calm down.

Fundin acquiesced, reluctantly falling silent.

“Is it true, what my Captain says?” Thrór asked Dolaran matter-of-factly. “Was Dwalin outnumbered?”

Dolaran nodded hesitantly.

“You foolish boy!” his father Torogan burst out. “If it was a bout of strength, why did you gang up on him?!”

Dolaran sputtered a bit but didn’t seem to have a reliable defense. Shifting from foot to foot, he looked away into the dark corner and stiffened.

Fundin alone noticed the lad’s tensing and followed his eyes. Fori’s pale, ghostly blue eyes locked with Fundin’s and a finger rose to his grim-set mouth.

 _Shh_.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Time we sorted things out."

“Right then, Mister, Missus, and Sonny-boy Dourhand,” Fori greeted the imprisoned Dwarves pleasantly as he sauntered from the shadows. “Time we sorted things out.”

Dolaran leapt back toward his parents with a white face. “You can’t come anywhere near us! We’re under the King’s protection!” he stammered.

Fori laughed scornfully. “If you call this ‘protection’, lad, you’re probably more fatuous than even _I_ thought.”

“You dare to speak to my son that way!” Narrahilda seethed.

Torogan gave a weary sigh. “Listen, sir. I don’t know who you are or what you had to do with all this—”

“Your son threatened mine,” Fori announced calmly. “I was helping the prince and his siblings, tryin’ to break up the fight, when Sonny-boy there snatched my baby right off my back.” He shoved his hands through the bars and jerked Dolaran forward by the shirt. “One year old, he is, and already his life has been endangered!” Fori barked. Releasing Dolaran, he began pacing leisurely back and forth. “So. You’d better come up with a _flawless_ excuse right quick.”

“What happens if I don’t?” Dolaran asked, alarmed.

“I kill you!” Fori exclaimed gleefully. “I’m quite looking forward to it.”

“Do you think we would just stand by and allow you to kill our son?!” Narrahilda demanded, rising to her feet from the bench against the back wall.

“Oh, no, I expect you to get involved,” Fori agreed with her. “When Dolaran threatened Dori, that’s exactly what I was going to do. Then Prince Thráin stepped in and, as much as I wanted to, I wasn’t allowed to stick a knife through your brat’s gob. Now that he’s not here, I can set things right. Just sayin’ though, if you _do_ intervene, you’ll probably be killed too.” Fori eyed her up and down skeptically. “May sound heartless of me, but I have no qualms about killin’ womenfolk. When they try to do a man’s job and fail miserably at it, at least. Enough adult chatter now.” Fori leaned toward Dolaran in anticipation. “Impress me.”

Dolaran stood there, gaping at the older Dwarf. Though his mouth was hanging open, no words came from it. Fori’s expectant smile faded as he sighed and shook his head.

“That’s not an impressive face you’re makin’, mate.” The same knife Fori had drawn in the meeting flashed in the lantern light. “I swore I’d kill you with this here knife and that’s what’s going to happen if you don’t speak. Is that enough incentive?”

All that came out of Dolaran was a squeak.

Fori muttered a vulgar curse. “Never in my life have I wanted someone useless like you to start yammerin’, but—” He leaned back a bit, taking in Dolaran’s shape and build. “Hm. If I throw the knife at this angle...” Fori beamed, satisfied. “...aye, that’ll land it right between your collarbones and that hangin’ trap of yours.”

“I just reacted,” Dolaran yelped, cringing. “I was desperate!”

“So’s your excuse,” Fori whined sarcastically. “I’m bored. But I won’t be for long. S’been a while since I’ve gotten to kill someone. Even longer since I got to kill someone in a prison!”

“You’ll be arrested for this!” Torogan reminded him hastily.

Fori burst out laughing. “Been arrested lots of times, mate. Sadly, they never managed to lock the cage’s door for long. My quickest escape time was four minutes and thirty-nine seconds and that was only cos last time I tripped over the loo bucket.” Fori blew invisible dust from his knife. “Memorized every hall on my way in and the nearest bucket is three halls down. D’you Goblins think I’ll beat my record today?” Whirling, he hurled the knife at the silent would-be assassin that was creeping down the hall. With faultless accuracy it struck him through the eye and he dropped like a sack of rocks to the floor.

“Be right back,” Fori called to the Dourhands. “Gotta keep track of that knife.” He retrieved his weapon from the assassin’s face and returned quick as a flash. “Who was that? Buddy of yours?”

Torogan, Narrahilda, and Dolaran stared at each other with wide eyes. It had all happened so quickly, they weren’t sure exactly who it was.

“Maybe it’s a friend tryin’ to break you out,” Fori mused. A crossbow arrow bounced off the wall by his head and he gasped in delight. “Oh, more than one, is it? Love those gangs, I do!”

Thus he sprinted down the hall and began massacring the unexpected assailants. A few took kicks to the chest just before their throats were slit, but most were cut right up the middle. Fori used the same technique repeatedly, as none of them seemed to understand how he was doing it.

“Just plain disgraceful,” Fori muttered as he fought, “how these young’uns try to charge in and basically skewer themselves at knifepoint. What’s happened to all the knife fighters these days?”

He found that he and his last two opponents were approaching a guard. The other Dwarf was sitting on a stool about ten yards away. “Mind lendin’ any hands?” Fori hollered at the guard. “Or are you just goin’ to sit there on your rump?!”

The guard leapt to his feet. Drawing a longbow, the guard notched an arrow to the string with lightning speed. In that split second, many thoughts thundered through Fori’s mind.

_He’s using something that’s not standard issue._

_He’s far too calm to be a guard._

_He’s not even a Longbeard._

_He’s a hostile._

The arrow landed in Fori’s left shoulder, causing him to yelp a bit, but he didn’t stop. Instead he stabbed one of the two assailants in his left temple with his dagger hand. With that same surge of adrenaline, he snapped off the shaft that protruded from his shoulder, snarling as white-hot pain stabbed at the edges of his vision.

_Got a good eye for weak spots, he does._

The next shot didn’t have any traction, skipping along Fori’s shin with minor damage. However, the third arrow caught his solar plexus, which hurt so much that he couldn’t cry out.

_Take him out—fast!_

Fori made quick work of the other hand-to-hand combatant and drew on for the archer, cursing all the while. The foul words that spewed from him as he sprinted down the hall would have caused even his baby to whimper.

His baby...

“Right, then, Dori, this is for you.” Fori ducked the fourth shot, rolled across the floor, kicked the archer’s feet out from under him, flipped himself upright and buried the knife in the archer’s back. In the moment of silence that followed, Fori lay on his back beside the archer, breathing raggedly. The arrow tips were shifting in his wounds, causing him to groan quietly.

Stumbling to his feet, Fori leaned against the wall, watching trickles of blood crawl from the holes in his tunic. His vision fuzzed for a minute and Fori sighed, shaking his head to clear it.

“You’re poisoned,” he muttered at the arrows. “Of course you are.”

“Indeed they are,” another voice agreed. Fori jerked his head up, which brought his vision to a spin, but he could still see the hooded form that approached him. “Indeed they are,” the voice repeated, “but they take so long to kick in, don’t they? Let’s not wait for that.”

The last thing Fori remembered was choking, doubling over on the blade that was thrust into his chest.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With every footstep Dwalin cried out silently.

“Oh, hello,” a female voice rang out in the nursery.

Balin, Dwalin, and Hifur turned to find Fori’s wife, Jalane, leaning against the doorframe. Dwalin and Balin stood out of respect and Hifur was already standing, so he nodded his head.

“I’ve come to get Dori,” Jalane explained as she approached. “Has he been fussy at all?”

Hifur smiled sheepishly. “A tad, but Master Dwalin here calmed him down.”

Jalane’s thin lips curved slightly. “Dori takes after his father in fondness of you, Dwalin. I’ll have you know it’s rare for Fori to bond with someone as he has with you.”

For reasons beyond his knowledge, Dwalin found himself blushing. “He’s a good man, just as Dori will grow up to be.”

“And his siblings after him,” Jalane agreed with a quiet sigh, glancing down at her middle. “This little one’s a fighter, even more than Dori was. Always punching and kicking me, he is.”

“‘He’?” Balin echoed. “Are you sure—?”

Jalane nodded. “Oh, yes. I was hoping for a girl to temper little Dori’s—well, temper. But if a boy is what the Maker has in store then that’s that.” Carefully she took her firstborn up and rested her chin on his head.

“Thank you for soothing him,” Jalane said courteously to Dwalin.

Dwalin motioned to Hifur. “It was our pleasure.”

“Dori’s quite sweet,” Hifur piped up. “He and my own got along nicely.”

Nodding her thanks, Jalane gazed at the baby in Hifur’s arms. “Your son?”

“Aye, Bifur.”

“A handsome little one,” Jalane commented. “He looks hungry, though, as do you,” she added to Balin and Dwalin. “Perhaps you’d like to come for dinner? Maybe if you’re there Dori will eat peacefully.”

Balin grinned at that. “I don’t think that would help. When Dwalin was a baby, he would make such a racket that the neighbors would come banging on our door to complain.”

Jalane laughed. “Our neighbors do the same, although it’s usually to complain about _Fori_ shouting. In fact, I’d better see where said husband is. Probably off courting trouble.” She shook her head. “He’s a wonder to me, really. Sometimes I’m surprised I even accepted his half-drunken proposal and married him, but I don’t ever regret it. He may seem brusque sometimes, but he’s really quite kind.”

“Kind enough to stop and help me,” Dwalin said somberly.

“And hopefully kind enough to let your families dine with us,” Jalane agreed. “Shall we try to find him?”

When they emerged from the nursery, Balin and Dwalin were concerned to find their parents arguing fiercely in the hall.

“You need to go back down there!” Deallyra cried. “You don’t know what he’ll do, but it will probably be more harm than good!”

Fundin paced back and forth, running his hands through his hair. “I—I don’t know what made me leave in the first place, but there was just something in his eyes. I know I shouldn’t’ve, but I—”

Jalane approached, her features troubled. “Is something wrong?”

“Fori went down to see the Dourhands,” Deallyra sighed. “And Fundin did nothing to stop it.”

Jalane’s eyes went very wide and Deallyra became even more apprehensive. “Is there something even worse than I already know about that?”

“If he went to see them,” Jalane whispered urgently, “he’s the last person they’ll ever see. He’s going to kill them.”

Immediately Fundin spun on his heel and broke into a run. Jalane started to follow, but Hifur stopped her.

“Ma’am, with all due respect, I don’t think you should be running while you’re pregnant,” he said quickly. “Don’t worry, we’ll handle it.”

With a discontented expression, Jalane plopped down on a bench, setting Dori on her knee. Deallyra sat with her while Balin, Dwalin, and Hifur ran to catch up to Fundin.

Dwalin’s heart pounded rhythmically in his ears. This whole thing had ballooned into a gigantic mess, but no one had been killed yet! They had to stop Fori before he got himself imprisoned as a murderer. To see his friend thrown into a cell by his father would be too much for Dwalin to bear.

But that was not what Dwalin found. Instead he found his friend lying limply in his father’s arms, blood splattered in a huge mass on his tunic. His eyes were open but the torchlight from the walls illuminated the disturbing, uncharacteristic glaze of them. Dwalin froze, paralyzed by a dread chill that set all his wounds throbbing.

“Hifur!” Fundin barked. The doctor caught up and the sight of blood sent him into action. Lunging forward, he tore off his coat and pressed it against the wounds in Fori’s chest.

“Is he alive?!” Balin yelped in alarm, rushing forward.

“Balin, go back upstairs and get the litter; it’s leaning against the back wall of my office!” Hifur commanded frantically, notably avoiding the ultimate answer.

Fundin answered before Balin could by leaping to his feet and charging madly away. Hifur followed. Grabbing Dwalin’s hand, Balin pulled on him urgently. Finally Dwalin’s feet began working and he raced with his brother back up the stairs. With every footstep Dwalin cried out silently.

_Let him live. Please, let him live!_


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's just a matter of time, lad."

Hifur emerged from his office with bloody hands and a grave face. Dwalin leapt to his feet, ignoring the creaks of soreness that ran through his battered body.

“How is he?!”

“I’ve cleaned him up as much as I can—removed the arrows and bandaged him up, but...”

“But what?!” Dwalin asked desperately.

“The arrow tips reeked of Swift-Spread, a lethal poison. It’s in his blood and it lives up to its name. It travels too rapidly to treat.” Hifur swallowed hard. “It’s just a matter of time, lad. A short time.”

The hurkumalak Dwalin wore tensed as he clenched his fists. “I want to see him.”

Hifur nodded. “Of course. Do understand, though, that he’s only been partly conscious since I got him in there; he might not be able to hear you.”

Battling a sense of dread that stiffened his limbs, Dwalin went inside. His breathing quickened with his heartbeat when he saw the familiar cot. It had been him lying there before and now it was the man who saved him.

Jalane looked up as he approached. Her mouth barely moved as she said hoarsely, “I’ll let you...say goodbye.” She rose and shuffled silently from the room.

Dwalin sank down in the chair by the bed. His eyes followed the bloodstains on the fabric of the cot before landing on Fori’s face. The elder Dwarf’s face wavered between ghostly white and deathly gray, as though his spirit weren’t sure whether or not it wanted to enter the Far Halls.

The lump in Dwalin’s throat made it hard for him to speak. “You—you’re a fool!” he burst out, tears shamefully blurring his vision. “You’re a senseless, prideful _fool_ for going down there alone! Dori’s only a baby and your wife is pregnant again and now you’re leaving them to fend for themselves. What kind of father and husband is that?!”

With the hiss of Fori’s outbreath came hoarse words. “Not a very good one...”

Dwalin blinked, letting the tears spill so it would clear his eyes. Fori was awake, looking at him.

“Didn’t...didn’t expect an archer. Not many Dwarves take to elegant weapons.”

“You’re one to talk,” Dwalin told him miserably. “You with all your knives.”

Fori’s throat was so swollen with the poison that he couldn’t laugh, but his lips turned upward for a few seconds. “Not all knife-fighters are like me. T-Take to it as an art, I do. Most just throw ’em around like they’re hammers.”

“My adad has a hammer,” Dwalin whispered. “He plans on passing it to me.”

“You lot’re hammer-swingers,” Fori agreed softly. He coughed a bit. “How ’bout this, lad—when you’re grown, you find a young’un to train. Teach ’em the bow. Make ’em the best, better than that lug who got me, will you? In my honor?”

Dwalin nodded wordlessly, the movement causing the rest of him to shake violently.

Fori noticed Dwalin’s wet cheeks then and his pale blue eyes flashed with something heartbreakingly gentle. “Oi, now. That’s...not the fierce young Dwarf I know...” His hand stretched out, brushing over the tear-tracks on Dwalin’s face. Then it started to quiver, to drift back onto the cot.

Dwalin’s hands moved instantly to Fori’s, catching it before it fell. “But you can’t go yet!” Dwalin sobbed out. He pressed Fori’s fingers against the cold metal on his hands. “You h-haven’t even shown me how to take these off!”

The muscles in Fori’s hand tensed. His fingers weakly fumbled at the leather cuff, unlooping it. As the hurkumalak slipped off into his lap, Dwalin could feel Fori’s pulse against his—no, the lack of it.

He was dead.

Dwalin’s furious, anguished howl reached those outside. Jalane drew a knife from the folds of her skirt and sheared off her beard right there while Fundin hugged Deallyra against him and squeezed Balin’s trembling shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been dubbed the next George R.R. Martin for this...
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> By the way, what we don't see between Fori and Jalane can be found here  
> [Half Empty, Half Full](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2108523)


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the bright torchlight, all could see the three words scrawled in what was undoubtedly blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Khad: "(to) take immediate action"

Tras stalked through the deep of the Underground, weaving in between messengers and errand-runners. He walked swiftly, with purpose, clenching his fist ever tighter around the ripped piece of parchment in his hand.

His second-in-command, Vegai, had delivered a message to him in the obscene hours of the night. It was titled urgent, unsigned, handed to Vegai by a nameless, faceless personage to give to Tras.

When Tras had opened the parchment and read the message, his jaw had fallen open. There were only three words, but they were enough for Tras to take up his Meeting horn, burst into the tunnel and blow three long blasts that echoed in everyone’s ears for minutes after.

A Ring Meeting had been called. There was no crime-lord who wouldn’t attend, for all refused to be out of the loop in a most dire happenstance.

Tras approached the torchlight that indicated where the crime-lords had gathered and stiffened only slightly as he saw the Ring—every one of his trusted friends and hateful enemies.

“Tras,” a gravelly voice greeted him, its owner’s shadow looming a good few inches above most of the others’.

“Cellanar,” Tras answered back as he pushed toward his seat. He could feel Cellanar’s one eye following him, but he forced himself to seem calm.  

After all were seated and the opening words were said, Cellanar motioned grimly. “We are gathered, Tras. Tell us th’ oh-so-important message that panicked ye.”

Tras flew to his feet. Every crime-lord went for their knives at the sudden movement, but froze when they heard the words from Tras’s mouth:

“Fori Voriul, he we call Blade-Driver, is _dead_!”

Shocked, disbelieving murmurs crackled among them.

“How do you know this?!” a Dwarf name Datli demanded.

“This note was delivered to my second-in-command,” Tras barked, holding the parchment high in the air. In the bright torchlight, all could see the three words scrawled in what was undoubtedly blood:

_FORI IS DEAD_

“But how could it happen?” another lord, Ralmod, asked in rage. “The Blade-Driver is another lord, a legend among us!”

“He _was_ ,” Tras growled bitterly. “Note the empty chair to my left. Had the son of Vori heard the horn, his soul would have crawled back into his broken body so he could attend—yet he’s not here!”

Oreeve, the only woman among them, spat, “Who is his murderer?! If given a name I will hunt them down—”

“But if they could kill th’ Blade-Driver, they’re as dangerous as any lord,” Cellanar cut in.

“This is why I’ve called the Ring,” Tras declared furiously. “Every one of us may be a target.”

All at once another Dwarf named Ardofir rose to his feet. The ragged _shing_ of his metal boots against the stone caught attention. Glaring furiously around the Ring, Ardofir spoke.

“There are many here that, if given the chance, I would butcher without hesitation...”

The lords tensed at the obvious threat.

“..but _Fori wasn’t one of them!_ ” Ardofir bellowed. “The one who drove the Blade-Driver to the Halls will be driven there themselves! I will _khad_! Kill the killer!”

“I will _khad_! Kill the killer!” The vengeful cry rose up in the Ring like lightning. Even those who called Fori an enemy had respected him greatly for daring to _become_ their enemy. To see such a revered lord struck down was unacceptable.

They would _khad_ , then, for Fori’s honor. Without a single word of adjournment, the lords burst into action, swooping down their own shadowy tunnels to brood, strategize, and sharpen weapons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would be so happy if someone could draw this cuz I just ADORE these crime-lords. :D


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why can’t anything happen the way I want it to?!”

Balin had never seen his brother so distraught. The utter anguish in Dwalin’s eyes was enough to set Balin’s heart burning, but the way he seemed to draw back from everyone, crawling into the silence of himself...it made Balin want to weep, to pound his fists on anything he could reach and beg for Fori to come back. Anything for Dwalin to be happy again.

Adad guided them back to their house late that night. He and Ama went up the stairs to their room and Dwalin sank down on the window-seat in the kitchen. Balin stood in the middle of the adjoining living room, watching his brother, who was in no mood to comment about Balin’s staring at him. Instead he gazed out the window at the thunderclouds and the sheets of rain that poured down.

As he stood there staring at Dwalin, Balin felt a familiar ache rise in him. When Uncle Gróin had given the family a health scare a few years ago, Dwalin had plopped down on that same window-seat and looked at the sky as he was doing now. Balin had known at the time that it was his duty as a big brother to comfort, to protect, to rub a balm of healing over his brother’s fearful heart. Now...now Dwalin’s heart was broken and Balin realized that he was needed more than ever.

Even if he’d wanted to, Balin couldn’t stop his feet from moving him into the kitchen. He glanced onto the table and saw the strange wrist-weapons that Fori had given Dwalin lying there. Balin reached out—

“Don’t touch them,” Dwalin hissed through clenched teeth. Balin jerked his hand back, startled at his brother’s sudden ire.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized hastily. “I just...”

“Wanted to hold them, to hear the echo of his thoughts and the care he took in the craft? Make some comment about how unique they are and how he really cared about me?”

Balin swallowed hard. That was exactly what he was about to do. “Am I so predictable?” he asked sadly. “I want...I want to comfort you somehow.”

“What if I don’t want to be comforted?” Dwalin growled. “What if I just want to be left alone?”

Cautiously reaching out to touch Dwalin’s shoulder, Balin whispered, “You know I can’t do that.”

Dwalin whirled, slapping his hand away. “Why can’t you?! Why can’t anything happen the way I want it to?!” he shouted angrily. “The only person I want to see right now is Fori and he’s not going to be coming any time soon!”

Balin had rarely ever shouted at his brother before, not even when Dwalin gave him reason.  But now his stress, his fear, his sorrow and pain had finally reached the limit. “Then take comfort from the people that offer it while you still have them!” he bellowed back. “You think that close deaths are easy for me to handle, that I don’t feel any of the pain? Well, maybe you should get it in your thick head that I’m your big brother and if I can’t do that as I should then I’d better be dead too! If that’s what you want, I’ll go jump in front of a wagon! _Tell me who’ll comfort you then!_ ”

Dwalin was openly stunned. The brute _dominance_ of Balin’s tone and stance was one Dwalin had never heard or seen in him before. Not only that, the thought that Balin meant every word he said was utterly petrifying. The suddenness of it all upset him so starkly that he sank back onto the window-seat and hugged his knees to his chest.

In a single second Balin was himself again—kindly, concerned, and just as taken aback by his own words as Dwalin was. He gasped, stumbling back into a chair before whirling and fleeing their residence. The night was rainy and bitterly cold, the wind slamming into Balin’s chest and freezing his uncloaked body.

Dwalin surely hated him now, Balin thought miserably as he ran, and there was nothing he could do. He picked up pace, wanting the rain and wind to cut into him, wanting it to hurt. It did, especially when he slipped and fell on the wet stone with a yelp that was lost to the wind.

“Durin’s beard, are you alright, laddie?!” a voice called out. Soon Balin found himself being hauled up by strong arms and when his dazed eyes found the person’s face he knew he was in safe hands.

“Uncle Gróin,” he whispered with a mixture of relief and sorrow.

“What’re you doing out here without your coat?!” Gróin demanded, running gloved hands over Balin’s thoroughly drenched shoulders. “You’ll catch death chills in this weather! C’mon, I’ll take you back to your place—”

“No!” Balin cried in alarm, clinging to his uncle. “Please not there! May I come to your house tonight?!”

Gróin studied his nephew with concern. “Alright, lad, if not there you can come to my place. Let’s hurry now!”

Teeth chattering, Balin nodded, thinking that perhaps a cup of Aunt Neanélla’s steaming chocolate would soothe the ache in his chest.

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We don’t barter!”

After carefully pressing a mug into Balin’s hands, Gróin reached toward a chest to retrieve another blanket to drape over his shivering form.

“What were you doing out there so underdressed?” Gróin demanded. “It’s a wonder you didn’t freeze as soon as you stepped outside. And...” He sank down across from Balin, tipping up his chin so they could look at each other face on. “...why didn’t you want to go home?”

Balin took a sip of the chocolate and then whispered, “Dwalin...”

Gróin’s eyes went very wide. “Is he still in the coma?”

Balin’s brows furrowed. “You didn’t receive word that he’d woken up? That was a week ago!”

Gróin ran his hands over his face. “Well, your father and I had a little...disagreement. He was just worried about Dwalin, but since then I’ve tried to keep my distance.” After a moment he laughed under his breath and added, “I knew he would wake up. Dwalin’s a strong lad, he is.”

Balin nodded sadly. “Now he and I have had a disagreement about Fori and I want to keep my distance.”

“Fori?”

“Oh, you weren’t there for that either,” Balin recalled sadly. “Fori...he was the one who rescued Dwalin.”

“You found him?!” Gróin asked in surprise.

“He came to Dwalin’s room and introduced himself,” Balin mumbled. “He and Dwalin got attached quickly, but now...he’s dead.” He proceeded to tell his astonished uncle the happenings of the past week.

“Durin’s beard,” Gróin murmured when Balin had finished. “That’s horrible. Can I do anything?”

“Maybe try to replace this day,” Balin sighed.

Gróin gave a mirthless laugh. “I’m good, lad, but not that good.”

At that moment someone knocked at the door. Gróin’s head jerked up. “Who’d be at the door at this hour—?” he muttered in perplexion. “You wait here, Balin, I’ll get it.”

Balin nodded obedience and took another sip at his drink. He listened half-mindedly as Gróin made his way to the door, but looked up when he heard a shout.

“Uncle Gróin?” he called hesitantly. He was answered by the chilling ring of a weapon. The cup fell from Balin’s hands and shattered when he saw the huge Dwarf that filled the doorway. He had Gróin in a snug headlock, a knife keeping his chin craned up.

“The son of Fundin!” the Dwarf bellowed. “Where is he?!”

“That’s me!” Balin cried, alarmed. “Don’t hurt my uncle!”

The Dwarf growled, marching forward and pulling Gróin forward with him. Balin kept his shoulders square, trying not to flinch at the metallic clang of the stranger’s boots as he stomped toward him.

“You’re the elder son of Fundin?” he repeated suspiciously.

Balin nodded fearfully while backing up at the same time. “Yes. What do you want?”

“Information,” a female voice answered from behind, painfully grasping Balin’s left shoulder with one hand while drawing a weapon with the other. Balin froze, his eyes following the wink of the knife blade as it slipped around to rest at the front of his throat.

“H-ghh—” Gróin tried to speak.

The Dwarf with the metal boots glanced down. “What’s that?”

“How d-did you get in?” Gróin choked out, struggling a bit in the headlock.

“We have ways,” came another voice as a third Dwarf emerged from the kitchen. “Don’t worry, your wife is fine. Just tied her up to a chair for a bit. You’ll both be released as soon as we go.”

“Then go,” Gróin snarled, his muscles rippling at the mention of his wife.

“After Balin tells us what we want,” the Dwarf woman answered easily, wiggling the knife at the lad’s throat.

“What do you want me to tell you?” Balin asked, eyes wide.

“You affiliated with Fori, son of Vori, did you not?” Metal-Boots asked gruffly.

Balin swallowed hard and cringed when he felt the knife brush his skin because of it. “I’ll answer you if you tell me who you are.”

“We don’t barter!” the Dwarrowdam snapped.

“Yes, we do,” Kitchen-Dwarf growled out forcefully, glaring at the unseen woman. “We need to if we want to be quick in and out.”

“You came in just fine, but if you don’t let Balin go you won’t be going back out!” Gróin threatened, thrashing.

“We’ll barter,” Kitchen-Dwarf announced. “My name is Tras. The woman behind you is Oreeve. The one holding your uncle is Ardofir. Is that good enough for you, Balin, son of Fundin?”

Balin quivered at the use of his name. “Yes. I was a friend of Fori.”

“Then you know how he...died?” Ardofir asked, his tone no longer gruff but, in truth, anxious.

“I was there,” Balin said in a whisper. “My father, my brother, one of our friends, and I found him dying in the prison.”

“The prison of Thrór?!” After a moment, Tras’s face darkened. “How did he get there?”

“He went down to...to k-kill some of Thrór’s prisoners. Dourhands.”

“What was his reason?” Oreeve demanded.

Balin gulped. “The youngest of the Dourhands...he threatened Fori’s son.”

A sharp, collective intake of breath. “Dori?” Ardofir gasped.

“Yes,” Balin confirmed. “Earlier the Dourhand and I had gotten into a fight. Fori jumped in to protect me, but he had Dori on his back. The Dourhand snatched him, and Fori went down to the prison to kill him.”

Ardofir stepped forward, jerking Gróin with him one more time. Ardofir’s eyes bore into Balin’s and their noses were mere centimeters away. “The Dourhand,” he snarled deep in his throat. “What. Was. His. Name?”

Balin knew that he would condemn the Dourhand family to death if he told these Dwarves their names. As he stood shaking in his boots, sweat trailing down his neck to salt the edge of Oreeve’s dagger, watching Gróin choking under Ardofir’s arm, Balin saw the past weeks flash before him. He saw Dwalin lying comatose on a cot. He saw himself, dusty and bloody in the courtyard, screaming enraged curses. He saw Fori, limp and broken in Fundin’s arms.

As they’d walked home earlier that night, Fundin had been talking to Deallyra about a court case. “The law isn’t...it just isn’t on Jalane’s side, Lyra,” Fundin had said quietly. “I can’t do anything about Fori’s murder because we didn’t see the murderer.”

Balin knew that somehow the murderer was related to the Dourhands. If he made the right decision in these next precious moments, it would probably make him an accessory to murder himself. But Fori would get justice...

Pressing his eyes closed, face flaming with shame, triumph, and relief all at once, Balin breathed, “His name is Dolaran.”

In the next instant Balin found himself being shoved hard against the chair Gróin had first placed him in. When Balin lifted his head again, Gróin was wheezing on the floor and the intruders were gone. Balin helped his uncle to his feet and then went to the kitchen, kneeling in front of his tightly-bound aunt to work at the knots.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's a smart lad; he can find his way home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *âzyung: love (the noun)

It had been a long time since Fundin was furious. He’d been angry many times, but his fury was usually saved for battle. Now, as he lay in bed, he felt again what he had felt when he had argued with Gróin.

Fori had been struck down in cold blood.

Jalane, Dori, and the little-one-to-be were alone.

Dwalin was distraught, even more so since Balin had disappeared.

Deallyra had wanted to go looking immediately, but Fundin had stopped her, slipping her out of her cloak. When his wife demanded what he was doing, Fundin sighed.

“You’re exhausted, _âzyung_ , and Balin needs some time to himself. Come to bed and we’ll look in the morning.”  

Deallyra couldn’t hold back her motherly worry. “What if—”

“He’s a smart lad; he can find his way home,” Fundin reminded her. “Now come.”

That had been three hours ago and even though he also was weary, Fundin couldn’t sleep. Therefore he kissed his wife’s cheek and got to his feet, surprisingly silent for one of such bulk. Dressing quickly, he went downstairs and opened the front door.

The rain still poured down, Fundin noted. Normally he liked the rain, but now it just seemed bitter and painful. Drawing his cloak tighter around himself, Fundin set out for the prison. He needed to see...he needed to see.

Guards on duty recognized him immediately and allowed him through. He nodded his thanks and began down the halls.

No one had cleaned the floor yet, Fundin noticed grimly. The bodies had, of course, been taken away, but he could still see specks of red in the cracks between the stone. Shuddering a little, he moved toward the corner cell.

The lock had been broken with a sword, which wasn’t very helpful to Fundin. Any and every Dwarf, even the womenfolk and now some of the children, had weapons. Running his fingers over the dented lock, Fundin began a mental scroll through a list of blades.

A broadsword then—likely an old one, due to the wobble of the cuts. The owner may have had a steady hand, but their sword was dull.

“Not dull enough to spare Fori’s life,” Fundin muttered, his fingers tightening around the lock. He glowered into the cell and then stood, swiftly walking away. He hated the smell of Dourhand in the air.

When he was back above ground, Fundin made his way to Hifur’s office. His friend usually left it unlocked, so Fundin had no worry about getting in. Once inside, he searched the waste and found the broken arrows. Careful to avoid the poisoned tips, he examined them.

They were from a longbow, he eventually decided, a grim smile taking over. This shaved down the list of suspects considerably; few were the Dwarves who used longbows. And even fewer were the friends of Dolaran’s family, Fundin found out as soon as he checked with some of his mates.

He decided to speak to Dolaran’s uncle first. Dawn was just winking over the mountaintop when Fundin found Rofouran’s residence.

A wide, sallow-faced Dwarf answered the door and squinted up at Fundin with his beady eyes. “Yeh? What d’you want?” he asked, his tone clearly one of suspicious disdain.

Fundin’s mouth twisted into a deep glower as he growled, “I’m the Captain of the Royal Guard. I’m here on _official_ business, so I’ll come in.”

Rofouran glowered back at the giant Dwarf. “I haven’t done nothing, so you can take your official business—”

Fundin was in absolutely no mood to deal with impudence. With a growl he shoved the other Dwarf out of his way and stomped inside, his boots rattling the floorboards.

“This is trespassing!” Rofouran barked.

“This is execution of a search,” Fundin snapped back, staring around the messy little place. Rolling his eyes, Fundin began poking into the clutter. There he found spare change, clothing articles, bobbles, dead creatures, and some rather disgusting souvenirs of past meals.

 _This Dwarf is a hoarder_ , Fundin realized with revulsion after hastily dropping something slimy he found in a drawer. _Maybe he would have an old sword, then?_

Fundin sensed something behind him and whirled. The vase planned to land at the base of his skull landed on his chest instead, shattering uselessly against the pure mass of him.

“Assault doesn’t go well for you!” Fundin bellowed as he lunged, taking Rofouran to the ground with his massive fists already flying.

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I just want you back safe. ___

Dwalin awoke the next morning feeling cold and empty inside, doubly so when he padded down the bedroom hallway and saw that his brother’s room was unoccupied.

_“...Maybe you should get it in your thick head that I’m your big brother and if I can’t do that as I should then I’d better be dead too! If that’s what you want, I’ll go jump in front of a wagon! Tell me who’ll comfort you then!”_

Dwalin tried but couldn’t keep a shudder from jolting through his shoulders. _That’s not what I want, Balin, really. I just want you back safe_. He heard a creaking from behind and turned. Deallyra stood behind him. Mother and son’s sad, dark eyes met.

“Your father left without me,” Deallyra said quietly. “He likely went to go look for Balin.”

Dwalin nodded. “Your door was cracked open.” With a deep sigh, he began down the stairs to the kitchen. Deallyra followed and the two of them made up some breakfast. Neither of them was really in the mood to eat, but they went through the motions anyway.

When they were sitting across from each other, Dwalin spoke up. “Ama...will it get any better than this?”

“What do you mean?” Deallyra asked wearily.

“Everything seems so...bleak,” Dwalin stated forlornly. He bit his lip. It had always been difficult for him to admit hopelessness, especially to those closest to him.

Deallyra studied her son thoughtfully before setting her jaw, rising to her feet, and grabbing a basket off one of the pantry shelves. Dwalin followed her movements with his sorrowful gaze, mumbling, “What are you doing?”

“Whenever I feel hopeless,” Deallyra announced as she began slicing some bread, “I put my mind to other people. I’m going to take a breakfast to Jalane.”

Dwalin considered the pain his friend’s widow must be feeling and knew that his mother had a good idea. He stood also and made a reach for the jam.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Good people offer condolences. You're not good people."

As soon as she’d reached home, Jalane had put her cloak and her son on the floor and sat in her husband’s armchair, burying her face in her hands. She looked up again only when Dori whimpered and held up his arms.

Scooping up her firstborn, Jalane cradled him against her, pressing her lips against his forehead in a weak Man-kiss. Dori’s tiny fingers brushed her chin and when she met eyes with him, she saw his confusion.

“Something’s missing, yeah?” she whispered. “My beard’s a bit shorter than it was earlier.”

Dori gurgled softly before looking to his right. Jalane’s eyes followed his and rested on the bedroom she and Fori shared.

 _Used_ to share.

Tears spilled down Jalane’s cheeks, wetting the downy hair on Dori’s head. Squirming, he whimpered uncomfortably and reached toward the bedroom door. “Ad-dad.”

Jalane’s stomach lurched. Trying to breathe, she sobbed out, “Th-that’s your first word, then. Right. It would figure.” Even the other baby deep inside her was still and silent, as though realizing the gravity of the situation.

Then a gentle knock came at the door. Well-wishers, sympathizers, Jalane knew. In her head she cursed them, but still she stood, settling Dori on her hip as she shuffled slowly toward the door. The Dwarves on the other side surprised her.

“Jalane.” The Dwarf in front swept a deep bow.

“Tras, Oreeve, Ardofir...” Jalane gulped, remembering the first name from a short, long-ago encounter and the other two which Fori had told her when he’d had too much to drink. “What...what are you doing here?”

“We just want to offer our condolences,” Tras explained gravely. “For Fori.”

“How did you get word?”

Tras shrugged off the question with a grunt. Despite the situation, he gave a half-smile to the baby in Jalane’s arms. “Ah...that’s little Dori, then, eh? He’s gotten stouter since last I saw him.”

Jalane shifted so Dori was positioned away from the visitors. She knew that these Dwarves weren’t the most morally lawful and she wondered in what instance they could have seen her child. “When did you last see him?” she asked cautiously.

The three Dwarves glanced uneasily at each other, obviously thinking that they probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. Pursing her lips, Jalane quickly stepped aside.

“Come in, please.”

They did so, filing in one by one and ducking so their heads would miss the doorframe. Jalane watched each of them carefully as they explored the room, making as certain as she could that they wouldn’t snitch anything.

“Why would you come all the way here?” Jalane burst out eventually, unable to keep herself contained.

“We said,” Ardofir rumbled, “to offer our condolences.”

“That can’t be it! You’re thieves, murderers—what did Fori call you, _crime-lords_?! He only spoke of you rarely, but what he did say you take part in doesn’t sound like anything good! Good people offer condolences,” Jalane ranted, stalking back and forth in front of the silent trio. “You’re not good people. So why are you really here?!”

Oreeve sighed deliberately. “Alright, then. We’re trying to find your husband’s murderer.”

“Why?”

“Because he was one of us,” Tras replied, his eyes steadily meeting Jalane’s. “He was a friend.”

“Indeed,” Oreeve agreed solemnly. “He was a friend, he was killed, and you know the customs of Dwarves. _Khad_ has been called—we will find his murderer and avenge the Blade-Driver’s soul.”

Jalane stared at them, a tiny corner of her mind sighing. She knew that somewhere in the Waiting Halls was Fori Voriul, Blade-Driver, her husband. His muddy boots were likely propped up on a table and a dagger was twirling between his fingers. His well-worn pipe would be wedged between his lips, which, if Jalane knew him at all, would now be curved in a sly, knowing smile.

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I wasn't expecting anyone to come..."

By now, Fundin was certain he had smashed everything of value in the hoarder house. Still Rofouran refused to concede. He came at Fundin again and again, trying to use his smaller stature to a dodging advantage. Fundin remembered this technique, used by his own little brother during their childhood wrestling bouts, and easily outmaneuvered him.

With a wild cry Rofouran attempted a right hook to the head. Fundin blocked it and, in the critical moment when his opponent was caught off-guard by the miss, made two firm jabs at his kidney and throat. Rofouran fell on his back and Fundin pressed a knee into his chest.

“I could go through all the minutiae of arresting you,” Fundin growled, flecks of spit hitting the Dourhand’s face. “But I think—unless you tell me truthfully what you and the rest of your family have been doing lately—I think I’m going to kill you right here. There are plenty of things to choke you with, or I could just stab you with _this_.” He leaned toward a stool and snatched up a broadsword that lay unsheathed on it. Settling it against Rofouran’s collarbone, he demanded, “When was this last used and by whom? Was it you?”

Rofouran apparently wasn’t scared by Fundin’s size or strength, but when it came down to interrogation he turned out to be a wuss. “No, it wasn’t me! I gave it to a crime-lord so he could fulfill his debt!”

Fundin’s brows wrinkled. “Crime-lord?” he sputtered. “What crime-lor—debt? You gave him that broadsword and then let him bring it back here?”

Rofouran gasped a little as the sword shifted closer to his throat. “It was stupid of me, but I didn’t know what to do with it! I wasn’t expecting anyone to come...”

“Crime-lords,” Fundin redirected him sternly. “Who and what are they? Which one was in a debt to you and what debt was it?”

“He stole something from my brother, Torogan,” Rofouran sighed deeply. “But he was caught and my brother said that our family could call upon him at any time to pay the debt he owed us for sparing him. So when I heard my brother and his family had gotten imprisoned, I called upon him to get them free.”

Fundin’s expression came to rage. If it was possible, he pressed the blade even closer and spat, “That makes you an accessory—no, an _accomplice_ to murder! But you haven’t answered my other question. Who was the crime-lord?”

“Is it really that important?” Rofouran whined. “All you have to do is pick one and ask him who did it!”

“A process that could take weeks! I don’t have that long,” Fundin barked. “You listen to me, Dourhand. My son was attacked by your nephew and nearly killed. The Dwarf who saved him, Fori, was in that dungeon when the crime-lord you’re protecting tried to break out your family. Fori was killed, undoubtedly by that crime-lord, because I highly suspect that no one else could have pulled it off. Despite his crimes, Fori was a good man—a worthy husband and a loving father. Now his year-old son will have nothing but the stories of his mother by which to remember, and the baby to be born any time now will have even less. I plan to give Fori’s widow something more to tell them: the name of the one who killed their father and the location of his gravestone so they can go and spit on it.” Fundin drew back his arm, the blade glinting in the light coming through the window, and bellowed, “Your grave will be right next to his if you don’t tell me his name _right now!_ ”

Rofouran’s voice pitched to a shriek. “His name is Vegai!”

Fundin lowered the sword and stood, hauling the Dourhand up with him. “Now I’m going to arrest you. You can spend your days sitting in the same cell your family shared and when you look longingly down the hall toward freedom, set your eyes on the third torch down—that marks the place where Fori was killed—and thank Mahal that I’m not the guard who stands near there.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're not going alone."

Balin watched with concern as Gróin gently pressed a cold washcloth over the stripes of rope-burn on Neanélla’s wrists. His words as he did it weren’t so gentle.

“How dare they do this to you?” he muttered furiously. “If I ever see them again, I swear no one else will.”

Neanélla sighed at her husband’s barely suppressed wrath. “I’m fine, dearest, really. No good will come out of straining yourself.”

Gróin’s head jerked up. “It wouldn’t strain me!” he cried indignantly.

Pulling away from the washcloth, Neanélla instead placed her hands over the left side of his chest. “Perhaps not your spirit, but this...” she sighed sadly, “...this is another matter.” She wouldn’t allow for argument on Gróin’s part, so she turned slightly toward Balin. “How will you get home, nephew?”

“The same way I got here,” Balin replied reluctantly, standing. “I’ll walk.”

“You’re not going alone,” Gróin announced. “If those three scofflaws are still lurking about, you’ll need some protection.” Balin opened his mouth to protest, but now it was Gróin who wouldn’t allow for arguing.

So it was that Balin pushed through the seemingly endless rain, his uncle’s arm locked protectively around his shoulders. With each step Balin felt his heart sink lower into his stomach. Would Dwalin be angry at him for his earlier threats against his own life? Really, he hadn’t meant them at all, but that didn’t mean his reunion with his brother couldn’t end before it even began.

When they reached the familiar door, Balin slowly raised his hand to knock, but the door opened before he could. Dwalin stood on the other side, cloaked for a walk. Balin swallowed hard as his brother’s jaw dropped open.

“Dwalin,” Balin mustered eventually, “I’m sor—” His apology was cut off by his grunt of disbelief as Dwalin lunged forward and threw his arms around him. Dwalin’s ragged breathing heated Balin’s soaked clothing as he buried his face in his shoulder.

“Dw-Dwalin?” Balin asked again. There was a sound like a broken sob and Balin started panicking. “Dwalin! Brother, what’s wrong?!”

“Y-You...we didn’t know where you went!” Dwalin gasped out in a thick voice. “You didn’t come home!”

Guilt swept over Balin’s entire body as he lifted his arms and returned the tight embrace. “I’m sorry,” he finally managed to finish. He looked up as Deallyra appeared behind Dwalin with a basket in her hand. The basket slammed to the floor as she rushed forward and threw her arms around both her sons at once. Gróin looked on with a rueful smile, having known that something like this was likely to happen.

After apologies and forgiveness were exchanged, Deallyra pulled back and picked up her basket again. “We’re going to ask directions to Fori’s house and give Jalane some food. Come with us, both of you.”

Gróin took a step back. “Ach, I shouldn’t go. Jalane and Fori never knew me—”

“I insist,” Deallyra announced firmly. “Jalane will know you now even if I have to drag you along. I’ve missed you this past week.”

Gróin finally relented and walked with his sister-in-law. Balin and Dwalin walked behind, arms linked together like they would never let go.

 


	32. Chapter 32

Dwalin was rather curious. Balin had returned, but he wouldn’t explain what the strain in his face was about. Something had happened and Dwalin didn’t know what it was. Did Balin not truly believe he had been forgiven? Just to be safe, Dwalin asked him what was wrong.

“Nothing,” Balin answered with a shaky laugh. “Just...lost in thought.”

“What’re you thinking about?” Dwalin persisted.

“Aunt Neanélla and Uncle Gróin had a little argument,” Balin said under his breath. “It was about his heart condition and how he shouldn’t be straining himself.”

“Oh,” Dwalin sighed. He and Balin stopped as the adults did, listening to them ask directions to the house of Fori son of Vori. As they continued moving Dwalin spoke again. “Why would he be straining himself?”

“Just going out with me into the rain over and over, things like that,” Balin replied sadly. “You know how cold weather hurts him.”

“Then why’d he come along?”

Balin shook his head. “You must always get to the bottom of things, mustn’t you?”

Dwalin smiled a little at his brother’s scolding. “Well, you know me.” His smile faded, however, as they approached a little house. His skin went cold even beneath the protection of his cloak.

Fori had lived here...

Balin sensed his heartache and moved in front of him so they could meet eyes. Gently touching foreheads with Dwalin, Balin whispered, “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” Dwalin answered, his voice clear but shaking. “I have to.” Slowly he pushed past his mother and tapped his knuckles lightly on the doorframe.

A muffled voice came from behind the door. “I’ll get it, Jalane,” it said, causing Dwalin to wonder if Jalane already had more sympathizers inside. The door opened, revealing a well-built Dwarf with brilliant green eyes that immediately popped wide in alarm.

Balin let out a cry of horror and Gróin rocketed through the air, propelling the Dwarf at least three yards back before they landed. Dwalin was frozen in the doorway, watching his uncle pound his fists on the other Dwarf’s face.

“You dared to put bruises on my wife!” Gróin roared, shaking the stranger by the neck.

“Wh-what?! Uncle Gróin, who is that?!” Dwalin was paid no mind, as two other Dwarves grabbed Gróin and hauled him off their comrade. Deallyra hurried to Jalane as Gróin thrashed, getting his boots into places that caused pleasing yelps.

After a few seconds Dwalin overcame his shock and lunged forward, landing on the back of one of the attackers. The giant Dwarf stumbled, shouting hoarsely as Dwalin locked his arms around his neck. This freed Gróin’s left arm, with which he backhanded Dwalin’s victim in the face. The green-eyed attacker, however, slammed a solid fist into Gróin’s chest, causing him to fall to the floor.

The attention immediately turned to Dwalin, who simply kept tightening his chokehold. Eventually the Dwarf he was on ran backwards into the wall. With a yelp, Dwalin fell with a thud onto the floor. When he looked up, the three Dwarves had each chosen a side of his throat and now held a dagger poised to strike it.

“Stop, all of you!” Jalane bellowed, her voice echoing even in the small space. They all froze in surprise. “Tras, Oreeve, Ardofir, lower your weapons! That boy is Dwalin!”

They immediately shoved their weapons back in proper sheaths. Dwalin sat up, looking more confused than pained. Like he was some hallowed thing they sensitively helped him to his feet. He snarled and shoved them off.

“Yeah, I’m Dwalin,” he snapped. “What’s it to you?”

“You’re Fori’s friend,” the female Dwarf breathed, her tone one of awe.

“And those are the...” The green-eyed Dwarf trailed off, pointing to Dwalin’s hands. He looked down and saw the hurkumalak, recalling that he’d put them back on. He wished he’d remembered in the battle so he could’ve stabbed these Dwarves with it.

“Where’d you hear of these?” Dwalin demanded suspiciously.

“Jalane was telling us about you and your family,” the giant Dwarf replied. “Although, we met your brother and uncle once before...”

Dwalin whirled to stare at Balin, whose face was ashen white. Creeping forward, Balin explained hesitantly, “They...with no better word, they _threatened_ me for information about Dolaran.”

“Why would they want to know?” Dwalin asked through clenched teeth, trying as hard as he could to overlook the fact that they threatened his brother.

“We want to kill him, of course,” Tras declared, dusting himself off. “He was responsible for Fori’s death.”

“Are you Fori’s family?” Dwalin sputtered. But they couldn’t be; they shared no family resemblance whatsoever.

Oreeve grimaced as she shrugged. “Ah, sort of.”

Jalane spoke up, her voice grave. “They’re his crime-lord family.”

Dwalin’s heart skipped a beat. He was about to begin interrogating the crime-lords when Deallyra knelt down by Gróin’s still form.

“Are you alright?” she asked anxiously. No response. Dwalin’s mother jerked her head up to stare with wide eyes at Tras. “Where did you hit him?” she gasped.

Tras became flustered. “In the chest, but not that hard. Why?”

With the single-minded strength of panic, Deallyra hauled Gróin up and out the door.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So he didn’t suspect it. He didn’t know that someone was going to come after him.”

“So...what did I do to him?” Tras asked tentatively as Hifur emerged from one of the infirmary rooms.

“And will he recover from it?” Dwalin added anxiously, pausing in his pacing of the hall.

“What happened is technically called ‘commotio cordis’, but more simply put it’s ‘heart commotion’,” Hifur explained grimly. “I must say, I was afraid for a while that he wouldn’t...” Clearing his throat, Hifur finished, “He’s going to be alright.”

Dwalin breathed a sigh of relief. “Can I see him?”

“Well, he’s sedated at the moment,” the doctor said apologetically. “Besides, your mother’s with him.”

 _But_ these _people are with me,_ Dwalin sighed silently, casting a disparaging glance in the crime-lords’ direction. To Hifur he replied flatly that he would wait out here and requested that he be notified of any change. It sounded like something his father would say and Hifur seemed to notice, nodding immediately in agreement.

Dwalin sat in one of the nearby chairs, refusing to look at the crime-lord nearby. Tras, however, wouldn’t let himself and his comrades be ignored.

“Dwalin,” he ventured. “Will you tell me about Fori?”

“You knew him longer than I did,” Dwalin muttered.

“Yes,” Oreeve conceded, “but we need to know if he was acting strangely. Did he seem distracted or concerned about anything at any time?”

“Dori,” Dwalin sighed. “He was concerned about Dori. That’s it.”

“So he didn’t suspect it,” Ardofir murmured after a moment, his voice sad. “He didn’t know that someone was going to come after him.”

Dwalin started paying attention at that. “Who do you think it was?” he asked doubtfully.

“Someone wanted to get him out of the way for something,” Tras mused. “That’s often why people kill—someone has what they want or they’re keeping them from getting what they want. Therefore it had to be someone who knew he was a crime-lord.”

Dwalin’s eyes narrowed as he gave Tras a sideways glance. “Really,” he said flatly.

“Yes, really,” Tras replied in the same tone. “Actually, it could have been any one of his enemies. He has... _had_...a lot.”

At that moment Dwalin heard heavy boots thundering down the hall. He turned in sync with the crime-lords to see Fundin appear.

“Where is he?” Fundin demanded desperately. “Dwalin, where is he?”

“In there—” Dwalin barely had time to answer before Fundin dashed toward the door. He paused for a moment, glancing back at the crime-lords who stood at Dwalin’s side.

“Who are you?” he asked suspiciously.

“Friends of Fori,” Tras answered calmly. Fundin gave it no more thought, disappearing into the room.

Dwalin glared, biting down on the word ‘crime-lords’ that had been surfacing. “Listen,” he growled. “You’d better be sure that you owe me for letting you hurt my uncle and get away with it. The only reason you’re alive is because you’re one of Fori’s friends.”

“I won’t forget, lad,” Tras answered, leaning into his face with a galling smile. “That’s the only reason you’re alive too.”

Dwalin took a step toward him.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No one else has heard yet, but I know who killed Fori.”

Fundin laid a hand on Deallyra’s shoulder. She looked up and nodded silently, knowing he wanted to take over the watch of his brother. Sinking down as she got up, Fundin thanked her and leaned his elbows on his knees, staring at Gróin’s pale face.

“So you just had to go and get hurt, eh?” Fundin muttered as soon as his wife had left. “It’s not your time yet, brother,” he whispered, placing a gentle hand over Gróin’s heart. “Little Óin needs you, remember? Don’t give up. I don’t know what or who it was that made you like this...but when I find out, I promise I’ll make them suffer the same.” He paused. “No one else has heard yet, but I know who killed Fori. You might not know who Fori was, but he was a friend who was killed and now I know who did it. The problem is that I haven’t any way of tracking him down. I would need the help of someone in the Underground and that’s something I’m...reluctant about, to put it mildly. I doubt anyone would betray Vegai for the sake of a lawman’s dead friend. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was some revered crime-lord or something...”

“No, he’s not,” a voice growled from behind him. Fundin leapt to his feet and whirled to find one of the ‘friends of Fori’ that had been waiting outside.

“You know of Vegai?” Fundin gasped.

The smaller Dwarf grinned savagely. “Know of him? I _own_ him. But soon the ground will.”

Fundin leapt forward, snatching up the Dwarf’s arm. “Who are you?” he demanded. “How do you know him?”

“My name is Tras. I know him as the treacherous second-in-command that I’m going to cut right up the middle,” Tras snapped. “Let go of my arm.”

“You’re a crime-lord?” Fundin asked, his tone suddenly becoming far more menacing.

Tras nodded jerkily. “You better believe it!”

“Then I have to arrest you,” Fundin announced, squeezing Tras’s bicep in one hand and making him wince. “How do I know Vegai is so ‘treacherous’ as you claim? You could have _sent_ him to kill Fori!”

“What?!” another voice cried in horror.

Fundin looked up and saw Dwalin standing in the doorway.

“Adad, did he kill him?!” Dwalin asked, eyes wide.

“No, it was my underling!” Tras barked at the lad. “He’s turned against me and I’m going to kill _him_!”

“You’re not going anywhere!” Fundin spoke over him. “You’re staying here for interrogation.”

Tras turned slowly toward him. “You say you were a friend of Fori?” he asked in a low voice, his green eyes burning with barely suppressed anger. “If that’s true, you’ll let me go. I have the chance to avenge his death. No one else will be able to.”

“Why’s that?”

“Fori and I trained Vegai!” Tras explained heatedly. “Only Fori and I could ever best him and, as you are well aware, Fori is otherwise occupied! _I_ have to end this! Now let me go!”

Fundin hesitated for seven long seconds before slowly releasing Tras’s arm. The crime-lord rubbed the bruises that were swiftly forming and stalked toward his two companions, undoubtedly muttering Vegai’s name at them, for the woman immediately stiffened and the man snarled. The three whirled almost in sync and took off. Fundin made a split-second decision and went after them without realizing that there was someone else following him.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let’s find that Orc-son Vegai and sever his hands.”

Of course Vegai would be the one to hand him the message about Fori’s death, Tras thought bitterly as he stalked toward the Slums, flanked by Oreeve and Ardofir. He had ample access to Fori’s blood with which to write the words!

Flashes of the past echoed through Tras’s mind as he entered crime-lord territory. He saw Vegai falling over and over beneath Fori’s flurrying fists, the resenting scowl the underling wore beneath his bruises as Fori criticized his failing movements. Tras berated himself now for not realizing how deeply the resentment had rooted. Vegai had been waiting this whole time, hadn’t he? Tras had almost no doubt of it.

“Shall we draw it out or kill him swiftly?” Oreeve growled in his ear as they approached the entrance to the Underground tunnels.

“Neither yet,” Tras replied in the same low tone. “First we lose our tail.” He made an almost infinitesimal gesture toward the area behind their backs. “Can’t have a lawman finding the main entrance to the Underground.” So saying, he swept down a different path, one that led toward a sub-entrance that could easily be sealed off at a later time. Oreeve and Ardofir followed as if this was the natural way to go and Tras hoped that their stalker was fooled. He continued following, so he most likely was. Tras didn’t mind his presence all that much, but he’d better not get in the way when he was killing Vegai.

How he was to kill Vegai, Tras had yet to figure out. Fori would have tortured him, flitting about around his head and mocking him in that light, happy-go-lucky tone of his that belied his dark intentions. Tras was more impatient: when he confronted an enemy, he made the confrontation short and swift. He and Fori had often butted heads about this when they were training Vegai, but the pupil always seemed to lean toward Tras’s ways. Because of that habit Tras was now considering capturing his apprentice and torturing him for as long as Fori would have wanted.

Tras then muttered, “Duck around here,” to his two friends and disappeared into what seemed like a dead end of the tunnels. They watched silently as Fundin stared at the shadows in which they hid, astounded by their sudden disappearance. He turned slowly and began to wander cautiously down another tunnel.

“Poor fellow,” Oreeve clucked, shaking her head as they emerged once more. “He’s going to find Datli.”

“He’ll be fine,” Ardofir replied shortly. “Let’s find that Orc-son Vegai and sever his hands.”

“No,” Tras disagreed. “ _I_ will sever his hands.”

Ardofir and Oreeve knew that tone, knew that there was no arguing with it, and nodded solemnly.

“And then,” Tras concluded, drawing his short sword, Amberbrand, “then I’ll sever his head.”

“Whose head?” called a voice. Tras jerked around and his green eyes darkened in fury. Vegai, so _guiltless_ , was leaning against the entrance to another tunnel, studying them intently.

Tras stood stiffly for a few moments, his hand tightening around the handle of Amberbrand. Then he relaxed. “I was just saying,” he announced flatly, “what I’m going to do to Blade-Driver’s murderer when I find him.”

Vegai nodded, pursing his lips sadly. “It’s a tragedy for us all. He was a revered lord.”

That nearly sent Tras over the edge, but instead he sheathed his sword and approached slowly, placing a hand on Vegai’s shoulder. His mind was screaming:

_He is a small Dwarf with a thin neck—A weakling deserving of a weakling’s death—Get him in a chokehold and snap him right now!_

“Yes,” Tras said, his voice oddly soft. “He was.” Squeezing Vegai’s shoulder much harder than necessary, Tras swept down the tunnel toward his section of the Underground. “Come, Vegai, let’s train a bit. Can’t let myself get lax in my skills...”


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How are you going to kill me if I’m better than you?”

Dwalin hung back when his father stopped in the tunnels, but something told him to keep watching. As Fundin turned down one tunnel, Dwalin saw a shadow appear in his place. He squinted, trying to make out who it was. When that failed, he trained his eyes on the crime-lords, shuddering at their threats to sever the traitor’s hands. That was what the Dwarves called _Ifarukh_ , or ‘lesser life’.

“...And then I’ll sever his head.”

“Whose head?” another voice reached Dwalin’s ears. He immediately knew it was the voice of that shadow. For a moment Dwalin was puzzled by Tras’s suddenly tensing grip on his sword. The crime-lords were supposed to be in the realm of friends, weren’t they?

Dwalin searched his memory, knowing that venomous look on Tras’s face from someone else. Fori, of course...the only thing that had made him that angry was when Dori had been threatened. So what had this person done that angered Tras?

It couldn’t be _him_. Could it? No, Dwalin decided, when Tras sheathed his sword and approached, putting a hand on the person’s shoulder. They then left together, followed by Tras’s two ‘bodyguards’ and, unbeknownst to them, Dwalin.

They walked down a long, dank, and nearly-pitch black tunnel. The only light was cast by the dented, flickering lanterns hanging high above their heads. Who (besides his father) could be tall enough to hang them, Dwalin didn’t know. He soon forgot about it as he sped up to keep Tras and the others in sight. He paused as they ducked into a better-illuminated room that had been mined into the wall. Dare he follow them into a place that had no escape but the way he’d entered? Steeling himself, Dwalin crept forward, peering around the corner.

The room was larger than Dwalin had thought—it was more like a miniature sports ground, with seats surrounding a fenced ring. A sparring ring, Dwalin realized a moment later as Tras and the other Dwarf jumped down into it and faced each other. With a quiet gasp, Dwalin ducked into the shadows when others, undoubtedly more crime-lords, approached and began sitting down to watch the match.

Why was Tras wasting time on a sparring match when he could be avenging Fori? Dwalin felt a spark of anger that was quickly smothered when a cloak slapped him in the face. More followed as their owners decided their warmth and the body heat of others would be uncomfortable together. Thinking fast, Dwalin pulled one on and drew the hood, slipping into the swiftly amassing crowd.

He sat in a seat near Ardofir and Oreeve, feeling a connection to them even though he only vaguely knew them. As the fight started, Dwalin could see that Tras wasn’t going to show any restraint. The blows he threw were so fast, so driven that his opponent barely had time to block. Dwalin thought that was rather unfair, so he admired the stranger for landing a fist to Tras’s jaw.

 _That’s for mocking me earlier,_ Dwalin thought, nodding approvingly. The moment passed quickly, as Tras dug in deeper and pressed harder against him. Bruises and cuts were being inflicted, making Dwalin think that perhaps this was more than a simple training match.

Dwalin grew slightly distracted, tensing as an older Dwarf with one eye moved to sit next to Ardofir, his back bumping Dwalin’s boots. Cautiously he leaned forward in the pretense of getting a better view—eavesdropping in reality.

“Why is Tras...abusin’ him?” the older Dwarf asked, so quietly Dwalin almost didn’t catch his words.

“Vegai is his pupil,” Ardofir snapped. “He receives the punishment if Tras is vexed.”

“Why, then, is Tras vexed?”

“Leave it alone, Cellanar!” Ardofir hissed. “Tras may do as he pleases!”

Cellanar seemed taken aback by Ardofir’s words. His left eye was still in its place and the way his head was turned Dwalin could see it, see the perplexion and shrewd thoughts surfacing in his mind.

“Is this about Fori’s death?” he asked after a moment. “I understand th’ bond Tras had with him.”

“It’s worse than that,” Oreeve growled, leaning forward on Ardofir’s other side to get Cellanar in her sights. “Vegai—he killed Fori.”

Dwalin’s head went into a rush of rage and he leapt to his feet, only to be shoved down again by the person behind him.

“Keep still! I want my view clear for this one,” the voice hissed.

Dwalin hated the helplessness that bit his heart right now. As Tras’s knee rammed into Vegai’s middle and undoubtedly broke his ribs, Dwalin could barely keep his ire under control. He _needed_ Vegai to die. Here. Right now. Why was Tras doing it so slowly?!

Vegai didn’t seem to understand what was going on, why his master was being so violent with him. He struggled against Tras’s tide of fury, his indignation at such treatment making him bleed faster and easier. Tras liked this. While striking with his right hand as a fist, he drew a dagger with his left, slashing deep into Vegai’s bicep with a splash of blood that made the watching crime-lords murmur in confusion. What was Tras doing?

Tras didn’t care that they were dubious. His knife flashed again and again, cutting whatever skin it met until Vegai managed to get ahold of Tras’s left wrist, twisting the knife out of his grasp. Dwalin’s eyes followed it as he once again considered leaping to his feet, going down there, and killing Vegai himself.

“What are you doing?!” Vegai shouted, still twisting Tras’s wrist. “I thought this was just training!”

Tras’s right hand came up, clamping around his enemy’s throat like a vice. Vegai’s free hand reacted, grasping that wrist also and trying to pull it away. Apprehensive silence swept away the murmurs of the crowd. Crime-lord and underling remained in the stalemate for many long seconds. Tras took the opportunity to shout to the onlookers.

“You see this Orc-son?! He killed Blade-Driver! I will end the _Khad_ here and now by taking Vegai’s life!” Squeezing Vegai’s throat tighter, Tras barked, “I will kill you so mercilessly, so brutally, that your soul will never reach the Halls of Waiting! You won’t have the honor of spending eternity in that same place Fori has gone.”

Vegai’s face turned a purplish hue. Without warning he launched himself up, his boots catching Tras’s throat as he flipped backwards out of reach. Tras tumbled onto the ground, coughing, and Vegai stood over him.

“How are you going to kill me,” Vegai sneered, “if I’m better than you? I’ve far surpassed your inferior training. You were soft on me, coerced by the Blade-Driver’s cowardly ways of taunting before the kill. I strike hard and fast, unconcerned with such puerile ways.”

“I’m sorry t’ interrupt, little one,” came a soft growl from behind. “But ye’re doin’ just as Blade-Driver did—ye’re tauntin’ Tras now.”

Vegai whirled to see who spoke and a blur of silver arrived from the right and mounted itself in his temple. Cellanar withdrew the knife after a few seconds and Vegai toppled lifelessly to the ground.

Dwalin stared, openmouthed, along with the others as Cellanar stepped forward and helped the wide-eyed, panting Tras to his feet. Pressing the bloody weapon into Tras’s bruised hand, Cellanar announced calmly, “Vegai has been killed with yer knife. Yers is th’ honor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, people. You need to know exactly who Cellanar is. He is a one-eyed ninja who has a love/hate relationship with himself and the work he does. The only reason he became a crime-lord was to get money for his wife, Raniver, and his chronically ill daughter, Joniver. Joniver, wife of Bromur, MOTHER OF BOFUR AND BOMBUR. 
> 
> Grandpa Broadbeam avenged Father Ri. YES.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I hope you weren’t coming down here to supply your spies with anything?”

Fundin knew it had been too suspicious when the crime-lords had just _disappeared_ , but he’d been foolish enough to turn down another tunnel. Now, he thought bitterly, he was lost. Of course.

For a long time all he could hear was dripping, constant dripping as he wandered along. This was why he startled when he heard a voice nearby. Cautiously he approached, his left hand sliding along the moist wall while the other rested on the handle of one of the axes at his belt.

“...fools, wasting my time! I’m going to miss the training match everyone’s going to see!”

“How did you know about it, sir?”

“News travels quickly, very quickly down here. Now move, I’m already overdue!”

Fundin was too late to move. The other Dwarf slammed into him, stumbled back a few steps and drew twin throwing axes. Fundin’s own axes sprang up, narrowly blocking the stranger’s weapons from his neck.

When his throwing axes failed, Fundin’s opponent drew a double-bladed sword. “Who are you?” he hissed as he crouched into a defense position. “And what are you doing here?”

“I doubt you would believe me if I said I’d gotten lost?” Fundin inquired.

“I doubt it too,” was the agreement. The Guard Captain’s axes met the two ends of the sword, straining. Fundin had to admit that, although he was smaller, this Dwarf very nearly matched him in strength.

“And your name?” the stranger growled from across the blockade of weaponry between them.

Fundin thought quickly back to the battle name given to him. “Fundin Warstone, the Fearless.”

“Datli Steelspin. A pleasure.”

“Same to you,” Fundin answered pleasantly as they broke apart and shifted back into their defenses.

“So you say you’ve gotten lost,” Datli repeated, mulling it over even as he parried the blows Fundin lashed out at him. “You’re not a crime-lord and you’re far too big to be a simple underling. None of the lords would trust you to submit to them. Why would you be down here in the first place?”

Fundin didn’t know why, but this Dwarf had a way of drawing him into conversation. “I followed someone.”

“And then you lost them?” Datli laughed. “An easy mistake.” His eyes darkened slightly as he added, “But I don’t have time to show you the way out. I’m late for a training match that I at least want to catch the end of—” He paused suddenly, whirling and completely putting his back to Fundin.

Fundin could knock him unconscious easily, but he wondered what had caught his attention. “What is it?” he asked warily.

“Someone’s here,” Datli muttered in a low tone. “Someone who shouldn’t be.”

“That’d be me,” Fundin retorted.

“Quiet. I’m listening.”

All was silent, at least to Fundin’s ears. All at once Datli sprang forward into the shadows and barked, “One wrong move and your eyes will not be yours anymore. Now come out slowly.”

Fundin watched, dumbfounded, as Dolaran edged out of the darkness, warily watching Datli’s sword. He was followed by his mother, Narrahilda, and his father, Torogan.

“Warstone,” Datli called to Fundin. “I hope you weren’t coming down here to supply your spies with anything?”

“These aren’t my spies,” Fundin growled, baring his teeth at the Dourhands.

“Who are you then?” Datli asked, pacing in front of the ragged trio. After a tense silence, Narrahilda forced a smile.

“We’re Dourhand merchants from the city,” she purred, her voice overly sweet and innocent. “We didn’t want to come here, honestly, but we got into some...trouble, and we had to go into hiding.”

“ _Trouble_ ,” Fundin spat. “You mean when Vegai murdered my friend while trying to break you out of prison?”

Datli startled suddenly. “Vegai?” he repeated sharply.

Fundin couldn’t help the desperate hope that rose in his voice. “Yes. Do you know where I could find him?”

“The sparring match,” Datli answered cautiously. “The one I’m going to watch. He and his master Tras are training.”

“Tras is going to kill him, then,” Fundin announced urgently, “just as he told me.”

Datli was rather confused. “Why? What does Tras care of a civilian’s dead friend—?”

“It was Fori.”

Datli’s face contorted into something Fundin couldn’t read. Then he was off, bolting down the tunnel. Fundin knew he needed to go after him, but he didn’t want to leave the Dourhands behind. Thinking fast, he pulled off his long, wide belt and shoved the three of them together, binding them with it.

“Run!” he snarled, shoving them in the direction Datli had gone. They obeyed, scuttling rather comically down the dim halls. When Fundin and the Dourhands caught up with Datli, they found themselves in a large ring of roaring spectators. Fundin stared at them in astonishment for a moment before his eyes flickered to the ring. There was Tras with a crimson-coated knife, bruised and bleeding but on his feet, acknowledging the crowd. On Tras’s left stood an older Dwarf with one eye, stoic and silent. At his feet lay a body: Vegai.

Sighing deeply, knowing that justice had been served though it had not been by his hand, Fundin lifted his eyes back to the audience. His jaw dropped in disbelief, even more so when the action was echoed back by his son.

“Dwalin?!” he bellowed, causing everyone to fall abruptly silent and turn to stare at him in perplexion.

“What’s Dwalin doing here?” Dolaran yelped, cringing at Fundin’s side.

All eyes turned to the cloaked Longbeard, who rose to his feet and shook off his hood. His face was pale and his eyes were wide but dark. His arm came up, almost like that of a windup toy, and pointed at Dolaran.

“You,” Dwalin said, his voice utterly toneless. “You. Are. Mine.”

As Dwalin pushed past the whispering onlookers and toward Dolaran, Tras tried to step forward to ask what was going on, but Cellanar stopped him, muttering something in his ear that made him hesitate and then step back.

Dwalin stopped in front of Fundin for a moment, inclining his head in apology for undoubtedly following him. He then drew Dolaran out of his bonds and shoved him into the ring. Tras and Cellanar withdrew silently, giving the lads their space. Dwalin nodded his appreciation to them, spat at Vegai’s body, and then faced Dolaran.

Fundin tried to speak. “Dwalin—”

“No,” Dwalin cut him short. “Prison isn’t enough, not this time. You,” he directed this at Dolaran, “you are going to die.”

“I beat you once before,” Dolaran reminded him hastily. “What makes you think this time is any different?”

“It’s different,” Dwalin replied, lifting his hands for Dolaran to see, “because I have armor. Hurkumalak, armor of hands. I intend to use them.” His voice thickened slightly, revealing his sorrow as he quoted a friend. “I call ’em knuckle-dusters. If I flex my fingers or make fists, the prongs’ll raise slightly. I can rake ’em across someone’s face or just gut the fellow straight through if I want to make it easy. Of course, Fori was right about me. I like a challenge.”


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m weak. I’m wounded. I’m at your feet, helpless...”

Dwalin should have found himself angry during this fight; that was how he had imagined it these past days, but now all he felt was sorrow—a sorrow that was deep but steady. Instead of weakening him, it strengthened him and let him see all the weaknesses in Dolaran’s defenses. He could hear a voice in his head warning him against fumbled shots and weak blocks, but it wasn’t his voice or his father’s.

It was as though the hurkumalak were speaking to him, as though Fori were right in front of him, between him and Dolaran, helping Dwalin’s arms find shots he didn’t even remember learning and giving him that insane grin he always had.

 _“That’s it, lad, that’s it—drop, roll, stand...Don’t let him connect,”_ Fori urged. _“Draw it out, weary him! Cor, how long have you been doing this?”_

Despite that, Dwalin could feel this pressure emanating from all sides. These Dwarves surrounding him, they were searching for blood. _Good for you_ , Dwalin thought fleetingly. _That’s what I’m searching for too_.

Avoidance wouldn’t last forever, Dwalin decided, slipping to the offensive by a swift jab to Dolaran’s gut, not firm enough for his prongs to puncture but enough to make him stagger. The gravity hugging Dwalin fluctuated slightly as the crowd approved of the maneuver. Dwalin didn’t want to be distracted by pleasure or pride because of it, swinging a left hook for Dolaran’s face, but it never made contact. Dolaran remembered that was the shoulder he had wounded and dodged, twisting his arm as he had in that fight that seemed so long ago. Dwalin gasped as he was slammed to the ground beneath Dolaran’s bulk and a knee was pressed into his back.

“So am I still going to die?” Dolaran repeated his earlier statement mockingly. “You still like a challenge?”

In his peripheral vision, Dwalin could see his father struggling to get forward, some other Dwarves holding him back and hissing protests at him.

“Alright,” Dwalin said softly to the dirt, wincing as his arm strained as his body moved with the words. “I yield. You’re strong, fast...You’re a brilliant fighter.” He just knew Dolaran was smirking as he rose off of him to stand proudly above him. Dwalin rolled over onto his back, propping himself on his elbows no matter how it hurt and glaring at him venomously.

“You’re all those things, Dolaran, more than I am. Besides, I’m weak. I’m wounded. I’m at your feet, helpless...”

Dolaran nodded with each word, the prideful gleam in his eyes brightening.

“...so kill me,” Dwalin finished.

“No!” Fundin bellowed as cries of confusion and dismay rose from the crime-lords. Dolaran stared at him in confusion.

“What?”

“Kill me,” Dwalin repeated. “I’m at your mercy this one time and I want you to make sure it’s the last time.”

Dolaran was growing more and more confused by the second. He glanced at his parents for guidance. Dwalin followed his gaze and saw that his father looked horrified. His mother...

“Yes!” she agreed viciously. “Kill him, Dolaran. Become a man!”

Dolaran’s eyes were flicking from his mother to Fundin to Dwalin and back again. Dwalin could see the gears turning in his mind as he considered what might happen if he did it. A whisper breathed against Dwalin’s ear as clearly as if Fori had shouted it and he knew what to do.

“Here,” Dwalin offered, sitting up, unwinding his hurkumalak from his left hand, and holding it out to Dolaran. “Take it, put it on... _and kill me_. I insist.”

Dolaran snatched the hand armor away from him, fumbling with it. Slowly Dwalin rose to his feet, making Dolaran tense, but he simply went through the process Fori had so carefully designed, wrapping the cuff around his opponent’s wrist.

“These were designed specifically for me,” Dwalin said casually as he worked, “but you won’t be wearing it for long if you just stab me through the gut.”

Dolaran was gaping at him in utter shock, occasionally trying to speak but finding nothing to say. Finally Dwalin finished and stepped back. He glanced at his father and his heart clenched when he saw the horror and helplessness on Fundin’s face.

“Adad...” Dwalin drew in a deep breath. “I love you. Tell Thorin he needn’t work on that axe he’s been trying to hide from me—actually no, tell him to finish it and give it to Frerin. He’ll like it a lot. Tell—tell Ama I love her. And tell Balin I love him too. Tell him that he was the best big brother he ever could be.” Turning to Dolaran, he spread his arms wide, chin lifted, staring him straight in the eyes. “I’m ready. I’m waiting.”

Dolaran stood in front of him, shifting his weight back and forth uneasily. His hand was shaking, but he lifted it to the same level as Dwalin’s chest, eyes fixed on the left side where his heart was quickening. As he closed his eyes, Dwalin could hear his father screaming in the background, but he tried to block it out.

 _“Focus, that’s the key,”_ Fori murmured. _“You’ve made a surprise move—let the kid think it over, but not for too long.”_

 _There’s no need to be impatient_ , Dwalin thought back to him. _He isn’t going to do it_. He watched Fori’s face contort in confusion, his head tilting slightly to the side.

 _“I trust you, lad, but I don’t know what you’re playin’ at,”_ he remarked inquiringly.

 _You ought to recognize it,_ Dwalin told him. _According to these crime-lords, you did it all the time_.

Dolaran suddenly dropped his hand back to his side, taking a few steps back. “I can’t,” he gasped, cringing when his mother shouted a foul phrase of Khuzdûl at him. “I can’t kill you.”

Dwalin lowered his arms also, opening his eyes. “Alright,” he agreed, nodding contemplatively. He studied Dolaran intently. “I was at your mercy. Now you’re at mine.” Lunging forward, he stabbed the other youth through the throat with the hurkumalak on his right hand. The crime-lords made a strange simultaneous cry, somewhere between groaning and cheering, while Fundin was now the one in control, having to hold Dolaran’s parents back from the arena.

 _You see, Fori? I was just taunting him,_ Dwalin told his friend mentally as he lay Dolaran down on his back and began pulling off the hurkumalak he had put on him. When Dwalin stood with both hurkumalak properly placed, he saw Fori just in front of him with an expression on his face Dwalin hadn’t expected. He’d thought there would be grim pride or rueful sheepishness. Instead there was...pain.

 _What’s wrong?_ Dwalin projected the thought across to him.

Fori stared at him with that expression of agony Dwalin was swiftly becoming concerned about. After a long moment he bowed his head, but Dwalin could still hear him whisper, _“Dwalin...I don’t want you to be like me. Ever.”_

Before Dwalin could wonder what he meant, Fundin tackled him, pulling him into a suffocating embrace. Dwalin reciprocated, wondering if he should feel all those things other people talked about after their first kill—grief, fear, sickness...because he wasn’t.


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have every one of Dwalin’s emotional cues memorized—except one.”

Balin studied Bilbo’s face intently as he seized a bowl of soup and handed it to him. Standing in a small ring of trees while Bombur dished up supper, the Hobbit seemed slightly distracted by the smell of the foreign food, but now that the story was over Balin was expecting feedback. Eventually, once they were seated together on a log, Balin received it.

“So...” Bilbo looked pensive in a surprisingly Dwarven-like way. “I’m just wondering...did Dwalin ever train an archer like Fori asked?”

Clearing his throat softly, Balin made a subtle gesture with his head toward Thorin and his nephews or, more specifically, at the quiver of arrows Kíli was settling at the base of a tree. Bilbo’s eyes lit up with understanding.

“Oh...” Bilbo took a sip of his stew and grimaced, smacking his lips to acclimate to the taste. After a difficult swallow, the Hobbit questioned, “What happened to Dolaran’s mother and father?”

Dori, who was passing, halted abruptly, his stew sloshing over the edge of his bowl and burning his hands. Balin was surprised that the eldest of the Ri brothers didn’t even flinch, too preoccupied with giving Bilbo a harsh glare.

“They disappeared. _Nothing_ more can be said about them.”

“Aw, sod off him, Dori,” Nori sighed, lightly putting a hand on his older brother’s shoulder. “He has a right to ask.” Turning to Bilbo, Nori informed him, “They made a criminal ring of their own which the crime-lords named in our father’s honor. He was the Blade-Driver. They were the Blade- _Runners_.”

“‘Were’?” Bilbo echoed curiously. “Did they disband?”

“You could say that,” Nori said, his tone starting to sharpen as his brother’s had.

“Please don’t,” Bofur entreated softly. “I don’t want t’ think about it ever again.”

Dori and Nori glanced at each other meaningfully and went their separate ways.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow at Balin, who shrugged and shook his head. “I’m just as clueless as you, laddie. I don’t know what happened to Torogan and Narrahilda afterward; only Dori, Nori, and the Broadbeams know and if they refuse to tell there’s no way I can force them.”

“I understand,” Bilbo said after a moment’s pause. Cautiously he glanced at Dwalin, who had made an emphatic effort to sit all the way on the other side of the camp, next to Thorin. “Did he—Has he ever recovered from Fori’s death?”

Balin considered the question carefully. Right now, despite the fact that he was out of hearing range, Dwalin knew exactly what Balin and Bilbo were talking about. He was looking Balin in the eyes, wordlessly questioning how he would answer the Hobbit.

“I don’t know,” Balin responded deliberately, breaking the staring contest with Dwalin to look at Bilbo. “If you are or ever were a sibling, you likely know the way of them, aye? As his older brother, I have every one of Dwalin’s emotional cues memorized—except one. Every time Fori is mentioned, he just...blanks. He goes still and silent and one of two things happens next. Either he’ll leave the room or take off his hurkumalak and hold them, closing his eyes like he’s listening to something.”

Bilbo looked confused. “Listening? Listening to what?”

Balin was silent for a long moment. “To his armor. To the echo of Fori’s thoughts and the care he took in his craft,” he ruefully quoted a far younger Balin, adding, “While I don’t know for sure if Dwalin recovered from it, I don’t tend to think so. He will always grieve who Fori was and what it did to his family.”

“Like how he responded when you threatened to jump in front of a wagon,” Bilbo clarified, more as a statement than a question.

Balin found himself laughing despite the Hobbit’s skepticism. “Aye. That was a defining moment of our relationship, just as Fori’s death was a defining moment of who Dwalin has become today.” Gesturing to the Dwarves around them, Balin commented, “In fact, Fori has indirectly affected each and every member of our company.”

“How so?”

Balin leaned his elbows on his knees. “Well, apparently the secret of the Blade-Runners—whatever that may be—involves Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur and causes them pain. Óin and Glóin hold tight to each other no matter how angry they are because of the rift the search for Fori caused between our father and theirs. Thorin was very much involved in the political debate between the Dourhands and Longbeards that followed Vegai and Dolaran’s deaths. Kíli was trained for the bow at Fori’s request and Fíli’s primary weapon is the knife. As you could see, Dori has been forced into a father figure, a deeply wounded one who worries over his brothers constantly. Because of Dori’s pain, Ori knows practically nothing of Fori whatsoever. Nori...everything Nori has become hinges on Fori.”

“I don’t know him very well,” Bilbo admitted, “but I’ve seen how he and Dwalin interact. They don’t really seem to like each other.”

“Nori is very much like Fori,” Balin explained. “That and the sense of justice Dwalin inherited from our father are the reasons Dwalin is always so angry towards him. Nori is so much like _his_ father that Dwalin fears he will have the same fate as him. He knows what it would do to his brothers if _that_ happened.”

Bilbo gnawed on his lower lip. “It’s strange, but now that you’ve told me that I feel like I know everyone a little bit better,” he remarked.

Balin tilted his head with a knowing smile. “Then it’s true—Fori has affected _every_ member of the Company.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened slightly. “But I—I’m not one of you.”

Balin raised his eyebrows, his smile widening. “We’ll see.” So saying, he rose to his feet and plodded over to Dwalin, sinking down next to him.

“What’d you say?” Dwalin asked gruffly.

Balin ignored the question, steadily drinking his stew. When he finished, he set the bowl aside and stretched leisurely. “You must always get to the bottom of things, mustn’t you?” he quoted himself again, laughing.

“Aye,” Dwalin agreed impatiently, hoping Balin would hurry through his teasing and give him a straight answer.

Balin decided not to give him the satisfaction. Leaning against Dwalin’s shoulder, he murmured, “All you need to know right now is that I love you, brother. More than anything.”

 **Eleven Months Later**  

“...More than all our gold, more than Erabor, more than anything in the world,” Dwalin averred in anguish as he pressed Thorin’s bloody hand between his, taking advantage of the time swiftly dwindling and the fact that his hands were, for once, unshielded by his hurkumalak, Insult and Injury. _Mahal curse the Elves for taking them..._

Thorin tried to smile but the dried blood on his lips hindered him. “I know,” he croaked out, weakly returning the squeeze. “Thank you...”

Bilbo appeared at the tent flap at that moment, catching their attention.

“Dwalin,” Thorin whispered, “leave us alone.”

Desolately Dwalin released his hand, standing on unsteady legs and stumbling out of the medical tent, wandering toward a secluded area of the body-strewn battlefield. When he reached it, Dwalin immediately fell to his hands and knees, tears rising in his eyes. He didn't know how long he stayed that way—it could have been ten seconds or ten hours.

“Dwalin...you are Dwalin, are you not?”

Aghast at being caught in such a vulnerable position, Dwalin jerked his head up and glared hatefully at the young Elf whose shadow was stretched over him. “What do you want, you troll?” he snarled.

The Elven Prince cringed at Dwalin’s words but held out his offering nonetheless. “I want to return these to you,” he murmured, “as a sign that...that I hope peace might someday be made between our races.”

Dwalin’s eyes fell to the Elf’s hands and what they held. All at once Fori’s voice rushed into his ears as it so often did when he looked at the weapons. Listening to the quiet order given by his long-lost friend, Dwalin snatched the hurkumalak away from the Elf and put them on.

“About time you gave them back,” he snapped.

Looking somewhat pained, the prince retreated from him. As soon as he was out of sight, Dwalin dropped his pretense and sobbed brokenly. The childlike sound tore itself from his throat again and again, followed by hoarse gasps as his lungs fruitlessly tried to make up for the air they were losing.

When he looked up, he saw Fori standing above him silently. “What?” Dwalin demanded raggedly.

Pursing his lips, Fori held out a hand. Dwalin stared at it for a long time, remembering the last time he’d held it, the day Fori had died. Now, on the day he was sure to remember as the worst of his life, here it was again, reaching out to him. Dwalin didn’t take it, stumbling to his feet himself with the support of a nearby boulder. Breathing hard, he met Fori’s eyes, daring him to say something.

Fori was completely and utterly _Fori_ even in death, so he took the dare, retracting his hand so he could fold his arms and grin perceptively. _“There he is:_ that’s _the Dwarf I know.”_ Then he turned his back on Dwalin, his pale form dissolving into a breeze, the same breeze that stroked Dwalin’s face immediately afterward and dried the tear-tracks on his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, after a year and two months, Hurkumalak—Armor of Hands draws to a close...  
> I hope you all loved reading it as much as I loved writing it. Thank you for being so dedicated to the story, the characters, and me.   
> Yours Sincerely,  
> Bofur1


End file.
